


Two Years As Your Interpreter

by prettyvk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Asexual Sherlock, Drug Use, Hand Jobs, M/M, Suicide Attempt, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:03:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 42,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyvk/pseuds/prettyvk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John isn’t scared of Sherlock or of the adults around them. But he is scared of this Message. He is scared he’ll be there, in two years, right next to Sherlock, watching and unable to do a damn thing when he dies.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Because the true Message was, “Don’t expect to make a career out of this interpreter thing. I’ll die in two years.”</i></p><p>  <i>For the first time in his life, John wishes he’d never taken the Cassandra Tests.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day and Night

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by whodidwut on tumblr - "Sherlock is a prophet and not happy about it. John is his interpreter and they've been together since high school because every prophet will be lost without their interpreter."
> 
> Formerly titled 'You Promised Me Two years'.
> 
> French translation [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10217795).

The first time they’re introduced to each other, Sherlock stares at John for the length of three heartbeats, his gaze flying from John’s shoes to his jumper, his tie – all brand new and part of the uniform – and ending on his face.

John tries to smile, feeling a little intimidated. It’s kinda silly, because he’s a year older than Sherlock and it’s not like underclassmen faze him or anything. Still, it’s the first time he meets a Prophet. Even in his own head, he makes sure to use a capital P. Not just any Prophet either, but the youngest of three in England at the moment. The most promising one, everybody says – if only he is paired with the right interpreter. No need for the uppercase there. Some people think interpreters are special, but John knows his place. 

He only hopes this can truly be his place.

“Twin lambs,” Sherlock says, then turns away, never having shaken the hand John proffered.

The three adults standing around them look at John expectantly. Or rather, two of them do: the Academy’s Headmistress and the Minister of the Future. The third one, a severe looking man in a crisp suit who was there during each of John’s interviews and tests but never said a word, keeps looking at Sherlock, who stepped away and is now standing by the window, his forehead pressed to the fogged glass.

“What does he mean?” the Headmistress asks eagerly.

John’s throat tightens a bit. His first Message. Did it really have to be this one? There’s no doubt in his mind that he’s right, though. He can practically feel the meaning of Sherlock’s words like it was carved into his skin, can hear it like music composed for his ears only. His interpretation scores were good, but he never thought it’d be so easy.

“He means I’ll be his interpreter for two years,” he says quietly.

The Headmistress and Minister look at each other, and there’s a hint of disappointment there. Prophet and interpreter are usually paired up for life – except that Sherlock has run through five of them since he was first identified at age ten, six years ago. If John lasts two years, it’ll be twice as long as anyone else, but still not enough.

By the window, Sherlock huffs. That, too, John can interpret, though he doesn’t say anything.

That huff means, “Either you’re another idiot who only understands half of it all or you’re too scared to tell them what I actually meant.”

John isn’t scared of Sherlock or of the adults around them. But he is scared of this Message. He is scared he’ll be there, in two years, right next to Sherlock, watching and unable to do a damn thing when he dies.

Because the true Message was, “Don’t expect to make a career out of this interpreter thing. I’ll die in two years.”

For the first time in his life, John wishes he’d never taken the Cassandra Tests.

*

The first few days at the Academy are… cold. And it has nothing to do with the January weather.

Everyone here was identified by a Prophet as being important to the future of the world – and to the Crown – in some way. Or rather, everyone is supposed to be important some day. John’s own importance is fully dependant on Sherlock’s. And then there are those rumors that a spot in the Academy can be bought, if the parents only know the right people and pay the right price. Who could tell, though? Personal Prophet predictions are sealed by law.

Right now, the hundred or so students are no different from the ones in John’s old school. They’re immature, or lazy, or exuberant, or shy, or fun, or a thousand other things that teenagers can be. And they’re also cruel in a way that only teenagers can manage.

If it was cruelty toward him, John would shrug it off. He’s had a lot of practice learning to let comments about his mother, his sister, his clothes, his hair, his height, every damn little thing about him slide off like innocuous water drops he can just shake off. He couldn’t keep taking a swing at every damn idiot who looked at him wrong, so he learned.

But when vicious jabs are flung at Sherlock, it feels different. Very different indeed. Like mud rather than water. And Sherlock just sits there, in class or in the cafeteria, utterly still in a way that, to anyone else, might mean he doesn’t care. John hears it as the unending shout of pain and rage and despair that it is.

It takes him a while to understand. Why are they so mean to Sherlock? He’s a Prophet, for god’s sake! Someone finally clues him in. Prophets are honored and respected for the knowledge they impart. How can Sherlock be a true Prophet when he never, ever says anything?

By day four, John has had enough. He can’t actually believe he’s endured it this long. When they wake up that day in the five-bed dormitory and one of their peers says something idiotic toward Sherlock, something John doesn’t even want to remember after today, John stands from where he’s putting on his socks at the foot of his bed. With one sock on and his shirt only half buttoned and untucked, he crosses the room and punches Anderson in the nose.

It doesn’t break – John knows how much force it takes to break a nose, and he has a small idea of how much he can get away with at the Academy and a broken nose is on the wrong side of the line – but damn if it’s not satisfying to look at that bloody idiot sprawled on the floor and blinking wildly up at John. Their other two dorm mates look for a moment like they might intervene, but a hard look from John and they wisely think better of it. 

“You leave him the fuck alone, you hear me?” John says, ostensibly to Anderson, but he has no doubt the message, his message, lower case and still very important thank you very much, will spread through the Academy. He might have to repeat it, but he’s ready for it. “You leave him alone, or I’ll make you.”

When Anderson does nothing more than blink, John turns, very calmly, and goes back to his abandoned sock. In no more than a handful of seconds, it’s only him and Sherlock in the dormitory. Sherlock hasn’t moved a finger since John first stood from the bed. He’s watching him with a light frown and an expression John can’t really place – but then, he’s trying not to look at Sherlock.

“That was stupid and entirely unnecessary,” Sherlock finally says.

They are the first words John heard him utter since their first introduction. And he hears the Message behind them loud and clear.

“You’re welcome,” he says, grinning.

Sherlock looks away, but not before John can catch the smallest of smiles flickering on his lips.

*

The classes are not what John expected. Being a year ahead of Sherlock, he figured he’d have to sit through stuff he’d already learned. Not so. Students at the Academy make up their own schedule according to what they are interested in. Sherlock’s classes include the most advanced science courses the Academy offers and in three of them, he’s not even following the same curriculum as the rest of the students but has his own work and experiments set up in a corner.

John has to work hard – very hard – to catch up with the rest of the class, and he doesn’t bother trying to catch up with Sherlock. It occurs to him that, with everything he learns here, he could easily get on track for a medical career after…

After.

Two years seem like forever, at times.

But mostly it feels like it’ll be over in a flash.

*

The same day John punches Anderson, Sherlock talks to him at lunch time. Usually, he keeps his nose in medical textbooks, sometimes munching on a piece of fruit, never bothering to even acknowledge John is sitting across from him at the otherwise empty table. Today, he looks up from his reading just long enough to meet John’s eyes and say, “Counterstrike is a feminine word in French.”

John blinks. He’s not sure what surprises him the most: that Sherlock talked to him twice today, or that he’d bother giving John a warning.

And it is a warning.

Donovan will try to get him back for what he did to Anderson.

“Why her?” he asks, frowning.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and returns to his reading.

Suddenly uncomfortable, John shifts his shoulders and glances at the table across the cafeteria where Anderson sits with his clique, a mix of boys and girls. Sally Donovan sits on the other side of the table, although not directly across Anderson. She’s chatting with her girlfriends, but every so often she glances at him. The way she looks at his discolored nose…

“Huh. They’re together?”

Sherlock’s snort is a very obvious, “Of course they are. Are you blind?”

“Hey, I’ve only been here four days and we only have one class with both of them. Not everyone can…”

Sherlock’s eyes find his again. He doesn’t say a word, but it’s right there, in the blue that looks more like a storm than a summer sky. This wasn’t the Prophet talking; just someone who has eyes. After all, John figured it out too, didn’t he?

“Point taken,” he says.

Sherlock shrugs and returns to his reading.

“Although that is a problem,” John mutters, glancing across the room again. “Her coming at me, I mean. I don’t hit girls.”

Sherlock doesn’t look up as he says, “Your father will never stare out of mirrors.”

John’s breath catches in his throat. As far as Messages go, he doesn’t need to be an interpreter to figure out this particular meaning.

“No,” he says, a little choked up. “I bloody well hope not.”

They eat in silence for a little while after that – well, John eats, at least – but soon the Dean approaches their table, empty save for the two of them. It’s always empty.

“Hello, boys,” he says affably as he sits down, a clipboard in front of him. “I couldn’t help but notice you were having a little chat. Is there anything you want to share?”

He phrases it as a question, but it’s not a request. This is what John is here for. Listen to Sherlock, interpret his Messages, and share them when asked to. It doesn’t matter if it concerns the fate of the world or if it’s something private, John has to divulge it.

He’s starting to understand why Sherlock doesn’t talk.

Before John can figure out what to tell the Dean, Sherlock speaks again, his eyes flicking toward the other end of the room where Sally Donovan is laughing rather shrilly.

“Warm baguette isn’t always blue.”

John, who had reached for his glass of water to give himself a second to think, swallows the wrong way and starts to cough violently, his lungs burning. Sherlock raises an amused eyebrow at him over his book.

“Yes?” the Dean says before John has caught his breath again.

“Sally Donovan,” John says, still coughing a little. “She and Anderson… Well, if she’s not pregnant yet, she will be soon.”

The Dean’s head snaps up, his smile disappearing instantly. He looks around the room, and his eyes narrow when he finds the right table.

“Excuse me,” he says, already striding away.

John watches, bemused, as Donovan and Anderson follow the Dean out of the cafeteria, both of them looking rather stricken.

“La Marne won’t flood,” Sherlock comments.

John nods. “Apparently not, no. Thank you.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, but that same tiny smile from this morning makes a fleeting reappearance.

*

The second week is a little easier. When there aren’t adults hovering nearby, Sherlock and John have what could pass as conversations. John quickly notices that they’re mostly about innocuous things. Rarely, if ever, does Sherlock predict anything. Mostly, he points things out to John: the Biology teacher cooks up hallucinogens in his private lab, the Strategy instructor can’t abide his English Literature peer and regularly spits in her tea, the Trelley twins, despite pretending not to be able to stand each other, have an incestuous relationship that, if it became common knowledge, would no doubt ruin whatever great purpose they’re supposed to have in the world.

Every time, John wonders if he ought to tell someone about all these bits of information. It’s what interpreters do, after all. And still, he keeps quiet, and whenever the Headmistress ‘accidentally’ crosses his path and asks if he has anything new to share, he shakes his head and looks down, feigning embarrassment rather than look her in the eye as he lies.

Sherlock always flashes him a smile, afterwards. And those smiles aren’t quite so tiny anymore.

*

At the three weeks mark, it’s time for a family weekend. Everyone’s parents, grandparents, siblings come to visit, and the corridors and grounds are buzzing with voices, laughter and puffed up pride.

John stays in his dormitory, intending to get ahead on his homework. He knows full well no one will visit. It’s not so bad; Sherlock is there, too, sprawled on his bed, staring up at the ceiling as though it holds the secrets of the universe – and maybe, to Sherlock, it does.

In the middle of the afternoon, the door opens after a light knock, and the same severe-looking man who observed John’s tests steps in. He gives John a light nod of greeting before going to stand by Sherlock’s bed.

“Hello, Sherlock,” the man says. “Would you care to walk the grounds with me?”

Sherlock doesn’t move except for the way his arms tense, folded up behind his head. “Peacocks in the winter.”

John bites the inside of his cheek and turns back to his notebook. He clears his throat softly before saying, “He means—”

“Piss off,” the man interrupts coolly. “Yes, I know, thank you Mr. Watson. Would you be so kind as to leave us for a moment?”

His ears a little warm, John looks a question at Sherlock. Sherlock glances at him, then nods once. Only then does John leave. He hates it, but he leaves. Only three weeks, and it feels wrong to be away from Sherlock. What if he needs to say something, something really important, and there’s no one there to listen, to understand? John’s stomach twists a little more with every step he takes away from the dorm. He goes as far as the end of the hallway and stands by a window, feeling a little awkward and very lonely in the middle of the happy reunions around him.

An entire eternity trickles by – a full ten minutes. He turns when someone clears their throat behind him. It’s the severe-looking man.

“Thank you,” the man says.

“You’re welcome,” John answers automatically. But then, he has to ask, “For what?”

The man’s small, fleeting smile is oddly familiar. “He said you’re being a good friend to him. That’s… more than any of the previous interpreters ever cared to be.”

John can’t help but frown at him. “He said that?” he asks, frankly disbelieving. “How would you know what he means?”

The man’s smile returns, now with a distinctly bitter tinge. “Oh, I know, Mr. Watson. I always did. But knowing what he means doesn’t always help. Not him, not anyone else. Just… keep being his friend, would you? I could have been his interpreter, but he wouldn’t have me as his friend anymore.”

And with that, he steps away, leaving John confused beyond words. When John returns to the dormitory, Sherlock’s curtains are drawn around his four-poster bed, and John doesn’t say anything. He wouldn’t know what to say if he tried.

*

Two months pass. On another visit day when no one shows up for either of them, John finds Sherlock in the Biology lab, stoned out of his mind. Apparently, the Biology teacher forgot to put his latest batch under lock. Or maybe Sherlock picked the lock. John doesn’t care how it happened. What he cares about is that his friend is convulsing on the floor, his pupils blown so wide there’s no blue left in his eyes, only infinite darkness.

John should get Sherlock to the nurse, he knows that. He should get an adult. He should do something, anything more than kneeling on the floor and holding Sherlock so he won’t flail about and hurt himself.

The thing is, he knows Sherlock won’t die today. It’s one year and a few months short of the mark. He won’t die, so there’s no need for the nurse, no need for a hospital, no need for anyone to know about this.

After a little while, Sherlock stops convulsing. He feels very cold. John sits with his back to the wall under the window, in a pool of warm sunlight, holding Sherlock with both arms around him, his back to John’s chest. One of his hands is pressed over Sherlock’s heart, feeling his heartbeat jump and stutter.

“Sparrows fly upside down,” Sherlock mumbles much, much later, when his heart has calmed down.

“Yeah? I don’t care. That was stupid. You’re not doing it again. Ever. You hear me?”

“The wind leaves no mark.”

John’s arms tighten. “You’re a bloody idiot and I don’t give a damn what you think. You’re not doing it again. If that means I have to remain glued to your side day and night—”

“John.”

It’s the first time Sherlock has ever said John’s name, and there’s an entire discourse in that one syllable. John closes his eyes tight.

“Don’t try to save me,” that one word says. “You can’t. Nobody can. And I can’t save anyone. It’s all a lie. All of it. Prophets and interpreters? The world would be better off without them, better off without knowing what will happen. They don’t always stop it, you know. The Ministers of the Future in the entire world, they don’t always stop bad things from happening. They say they weren’t warned in time, or that the Prophet wasn’t clear enough, but really they only stop what they want to stop. What they care to stop. So what’s the point of it all? What’s the point of telling our Headmistress she’ll have a stroke on the last day of term? She’ll die anyway. Everybody will die. So will I. So don’t try to save me.”

Shaking his head, John says, “Day and night if I have to.”

It’s another long while before John helps Sherlock to his feet, then back to their dorm. Night has fallen. They missed dinner. John really couldn’t care less. He gets Sherlock to his bed and helps him strip. Their dorm mates snicker in the dark. John makes a low growl, something he never knew could come out of his chest. The snickers fade into silence. John sits on the edge of Sherlock’s bed until he’s sure Sherlock is sound asleep. Then he steps out of the dorm.

He doesn’t go, just leans against the door – day and night, he promised, and he meant it. It isn’t long before one of the proctors who patrol the corridors at night finds him. John tells him he has a message for the Headmistress. When he refuses to go to her, she comes to him in a pink dressing gown and white slippers. Her face turns as white as the slippers when John tells her.

He goes to sleep, but even despite being exhausted he can’t stay asleep for more than a few minutes at a time. Every time he wakes up, he sits up a little and glances toward Sherlock’s bed, only closing his eyes again after he’s identified his breathing among the sounds of the room.

John stays close to Sherlock after that, as he promised. Sherlock tolerates it. He doesn’t get stoned again. He doesn’t get a chance to do it.

On the last day of term, there’s an ambulance parked in front of the school when they cross the grounds to go to class. 

“Crowned eggs,” Sherlock says, not meeting John’s eyes.

The Dean becomes Headmaster. The next term starts with a funeral service.

*

The summer vacation is fast approaching. John’s heart misses a beat or ten every time he remembers. How will he keep his promise when he and Sherlock have to go to their respective homes?

On the last family weekend of the year, the severe-looking man returns. This is his fourth visit. He always speaks to Sherlock alone. He hasn’t said a word to John since the first time. Today, he does.

“We were wondering if you’d care to spend the summer with us. Provided your family is amenable, of course.”

“Who’s we?” John asks, confused.

The man’s expression turns patronizing. “Sherlock and I, naturally.”

As if it were completely obvious. Which it’s not, at least not to John.

“So… Sherlock spends the summer with you?” he asks, now frowning a little. “How come?”

“Where else would he go?” the man asks, frowning as well.

“I don’t know. Home. With his family.”

The man’s lips tighten into a thin white line before he asks in a dangerously soft voice, “And who do you suppose I am, exactly, Mr. Watson?”

John feels dumbstruck. He always thought… “The government?” he offers in a timid voice even though he now realizes he was wrong.

The man snorts quietly. “Sherlock is my brother. I’m the only family he has left. So yes, he will spend the summer with me. Will you?”

John’s mother is ‘amenable.’ On the last day of the year, a black car picks up Sherlock and John. The man – Mycroft; John managed to get at least his name out of Sherlock – isn’t there.

*

It’s not a home. It’s an estate. Countryside, manor, barn, a pond, a small house for the cook-slash-maid and her groundskeeper husband. Many more rooms than actually needed, most of them empty. 

It doesn’t feel like a home.

John’s bedroom is right across the hall from Sherlock’s. When he’s in bed, if he listens attentively, he can hear noises well into the night through the two open doors. Soft steps on the wooden floors. The light clinking of slides as they are set under a microscope and taken away. Glass vials bumping against each other.

“What’s all this anyway?” John asks one morning, standing in the doorway; Sherlock never invited him into his room after all.

Sherlock explains. Babbles, really. It’s the longest speech John has ever heard him make, and it’s the most passion he’s ever seen in his eyes. They’re cornflower blue, today, with gold sparkles as he explains… John really has no idea what. He smiles when Sherlock is done, nods as though it all made sense.

With a rueful grin, Sherlock asks, “Did the poem harmonize?”

“Not a word,” John admits. “But that’s okay. It’s nice to see you happy for once.”

Sherlock’s grin melts away. He silently mouths the word ‘happy’ like it’s the oddest thing he’s ever heard and he’s not quite sure what it means. Moments later, he turns back to the long desk on which his experiments are set up.

“Honey doesn’t just flow.”

_I’m busy._

Not quite sure whether he ought to apologize or not, John retreats. “All right. I’ll be in the library. Maybe we could play a game of chess later?”

Chess with Sherlock isn’t particularly fun. Not only is he good at it, but he can predict most of John’s moves. Unless, that is, John stops thinking and moves his pieces randomly, in which case Sherlock’s confusion – and his obvious appreciation at being confused – make it worth losing.

Sherlock doesn’t agree; he’s already lost in whatever it is he’s doing. John sighs, defeated. When Mycroft invited him over, he imagined… something else. He’s not sure what anymore. But it certainly wasn’t this, long days inside the mansion, meals prepared by the cook who otherwise is all but invisible, Mycroft coming in late on Friday nights and departing again early on Monday mornings, though he doesn’t interact much with John or Sherlock when he’s there.

Four hours later, having finished another book from the well-furnished library, John returns to Sherlock’s room to ask about that chess game again. Or maybe suggest lunch. The door is open as always. Sherlock is sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. His eyes are vacant. There’s an empty syringe next to him, and a red dot at the crook of his elbow. John feels like he’s going to throw up.

Cursing himself with every insult he knows, John goes to him, shakes him, talks to him. Sherlock blinks a few times, his head lolling on his shoulders.

“Rainbows have no beginning,” he murmurs, and John’s heart breaks a little.

“That’s not true,” he says, tears prickling his eyes, drawing Sherlock into his arms and rocking him lightly. “Not true at all.”

Sherlock lets himself be rocked. He doesn’t say again that he’s all alone and cold. They’re still like this when Mycroft finds them that evening, although John’s tears have long since dried, and Sherlock has fallen asleep. It’s a Wednesday.

“Maybe I should have warned you,” Mycroft says calmly, remaining on the other side of the threshold.

“About what?” John asks, his voice raw as though he’d spent hours shouting.

“About this kind of things. It’d been a while, I hoped…”

It’s obvious what he hoped. John doesn’t need to be an interpreter for this.

“At school,” John says. “Three months ago. I tried…”

Mycroft isn’t standing so straight anymore. His shoulder presses to the doorjamb. He bows his head.

After a moment, he steps in and, more gently than John would have thought possible, he picks up his brother and carries him to his bed while John stands. Two fingers check Sherlock’s pulse. Mycroft’s hand sweeps Sherlock’s hair out of his face, then draws a blanket over him. In the dim moonlight falling in through the open window, he looks old though he can’t be more than a few years older than Sherlock.

“He’ll be all right,” he says quietly.

He doesn’t say ‘this time’ but it echoes in the room anyway.

*

“Tell me what happened.”

The kitchen is bright. Too bright. John’s eyes are stinging again. Or maybe that’s the lingering smell of Sherlock’s vials and things being poured down the sink with copious amounts of water and liquid soap. He’s going to be mad when he wakes up. John can’t wait to shout back at him.

“When?” he asks, taking a sip of tea. The splash of scotch or whatever it was that Mycroft used to spike both cups makes him want to lie down and sleep for a week. “Today or three months ago?”

“Let’s start with three months ago. The school never said anything happened.”

John snorts quietly. “They don’t know. Nobody knows. I found him. I made sure he was okay. And then I made sure he didn’t do it again.”

“What did he take that time?”

“The Biology teacher… He cooks some strange things in his lab. Sherlock knew. He got his hands on some.”

Mycroft pulls a cell phone from his jacket. His call is brief, his voice like ice. John has a feeling that they’ll have a new Biology teacher by the time they go back to the Academy.

“Did anything set him off that day?”

John shrugs and takes another sip. He’s thought about that day a dozen, a hundred times. It was just like any other family day. Noisy and crowded – just not for them.

“I don’t know,” he says.

Mycroft gives him a look, like he doesn’t quite believe him, but finally he nods and says, “All right. What about today? What happened?”

John hoped they wouldn’t have to talk about that. Part of him knows this is Sherlock’s doing, Sherlock’s decision, and it’s not John’s fault in any way. But another part remembers all too well how his face fell when John said one innocent word.

“Earlier, I… He explained to me about his experiments. Well, tried to. I didn’t really understand. And I said he looked happy. And then… and then he wasn’t happy anymore.”

Mycroft doesn’t berate John for it. But he doesn’t say it wasn’t John’s fault either. Instead, he asks, in a quiet voice fully bereft of feelings, “Did he tell you what happened to our parents?”

John shakes his head. Mycroft finishes his tea before speaking again.

“Most Prophets are identified by the time they’re eleven or twelve. Sherlock started to make predictions when he was five. No one understood that was what they were. Our parents thought he was slow or autistic. They were so ashamed, they didn’t even seek a medical opinion. But me… I told you before. I was always able to interpret his words. And I… well, I didn’t think my brother would enjoy being a Prophet. He was already too brilliant for that. So I listened to him, I interpreted what he said, but I didn’t tell anyone.” He clears his throat quietly. “So when two years later he predicted they’d die in a car accident, when I told them he’d predicted as much, they didn’t believe us. They laughed it off. They scolded me for playing along with him. And they got in the car to go to some charity function.”

John eyes the golden bottle just beyond his reach on the table. He’s never cared much for alcohol, but right now he can understand its attraction.

“He holds me responsible,” Mycroft continues. “As well he should. But he blames himself, too. And nothing I say ever makes a difference. He was ten the first time I found him like you did today. He asked to go to the Academy so he’d get away from me. He won’t talk to anyone – not that it’d help unless they were interpreters. Do you understand what I’m saying, John?”

It’s the first time he calls John anything other than Mr. Watson. John swallows the lump in his throat.

“Yeah. Yeah, I understand. He wants to die. When we first met. He said… But you know what he really said, don’t you?”

Mycroft nods. “It wasn’t the first time I heard that particular prediction. Always the same. He’ll die at eighteen. But I think you’re wrong. He doesn’t want to die per se. What he wants, I believe, is to stop feeling. Stop hurting. The drugs aren’t so much an attempt at suicide as they are a way for him to feel numb.”

“But they’ll kill him,” John protests.

“I’m afraid they will, yes.”

“And you’re not doing anything?”

Anger pierces through John’s voice, though it doesn’t appear to touch Mycroft. 

“I found you, didn’t I?” he says, an eyebrow raised, and leaves John with that burden.


	2. Listening

It’s morning when Sherlock wakes up. John spent the night on the floor across the room after dragging in a pillow and blanket. He tried sleeping in his room, but he kept waking up to check that Sherlock was still breathing. On one hand, Sherlock’s prediction about his own death was anything but ambiguous, so John knows he has time; on the other, Prophets have been wrong before…

At the first groan of pain, John wakes up, alert.

“Night table,” he says, his voice rough with sleep.

Sherlock, who had been moving, stills instantly. He turns his head on the pillow. From this angle, his eyes look gray.

“Wooden dawn?” he asks.

John doesn’t bother answering. If the bloody genius can’t figure out from the pillow and blanket that yes, John spent the night there, then he’s the idiot John wants to call him.

And he does call him that. It doesn’t feel half as good as it should.

“Idiot. Bloody fucking idiot. Are you gonna take those painkillers or do I have to shove them down your throat?”

Answering with no more than a blink, Sherlock sits up and reaches for the glass of water and pills on the night table. Mycroft said he might need those. He said John should follow his instincts about this morning. And he said that no, he wasn’t staying to talk to Sherlock, it would only make things worse if he did.

So here is John. Not trusting himself to open his mouth again because he might say the wrong thing or start shouting. But god, he really wants to shout. He never did, that time at the Academy. Didn’t know what to say then either, but shouting would have attracted too much attention. They’re alone now, but what if shouting is the exact wrong thing to do?

Sherlock takes the pills, drains the glass, then stills again, his eyes growing wide when he sees his desk. His empty desk. All that’s left on it is the microscope and a few wooden stands for the empty vials in the kitchen.

His head whips toward John, his face distorted in anger. Before he can say a word, John preemptively replies.

“Mycroft’s idea. And I thought it was a pretty good one, too. It’s not like we were going to let you cook up any more—”

“Sugar lumps are in the pantry!” Sherlock cuts in, raging. “The cub buried them and drowned. How pretty are the doves?”

_I didn’t ‘cook’ anything. Mycroft knows damn well I didn’t. He just took my experiments to punish me. Why did you call him anyway?_

“I didn’t. He just showed up. And you know what? I don’t care if that was a punishment. Maybe that’s all you deserve for scaring the hell out of… of us.”

Of me, he wanted to say, and Sherlock seems to pick up on that. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he stands and comes closer, towering over John.

“When’s the ceiling crumbling?”

John jumps to his feet. It’s better, but he’s still shorter than Sherlock. It never bothered him until today. He glares right back, his fists clenched at his sides. 

“Because you’re my friend!” he snaps. “Friends care about each other. Or at least they’re supposed to. But you don’t give a damn how I felt when I found you, do you? You don’t give a damn how I’d feel if I found you dead. As long as _you_ don’t feel, nothing else matters. Is that it?”

Sherlock takes half a step back, clearly shocked. Then he raises his chin half an inch higher, his eyes blazing.

“Why did the cub fly too deep?”

“He told me enough,” John says. “Probably more than you’d like, but you weren’t in any state to stop him, were you?”

Sherlock grits his teeth. His gaze grows even colder if that’s possible.

“His direction is bitter.”

“Yeah? Tell him that yourself. It’s not like you need me to talk to him. Not like you need me at all actually. Did you even want me to come here or was that all Mycroft?”

Ever so slowly, Sherlock leans in until there’s only an inch left between their faces, until John’s heart feels like it’s galloping, until he doesn’t know whether to look at Sherlock eyes or his lips.

“Star and shadows,” Sherlock breathes.

If he’d slipped a knife between John’s ribs, it might not have hurt quite as much. He turns away and strides to his empty desk before John can even begin to try catching his breath.

 _Day and night._

John’s promise.

John’s broken promise.

“I thought I hurt you,” John says, shaking with guilt and pain but mostly anger. “I thought you wanted to be alone. I was trying to be your friend and get out of your face. But it’s not my fault, Sherlock. Don’t blame it on me. I didn’t put that needle in your arm. You did. That was your choice. It’ll always be your choice. You said you were alone? I was down the freaking hallway! I was there for you. I’ll always be there for you. But I’m not going to force myself where I’m not wanted. If you want my help, it’s yours. Anything. Anything at all. You just have to ask for it.”

He waits for a full ten seconds, but Sherlock doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look back at him. Clenching his jaw, John nods once to himself and steps out of the room. And keeps walking. Down the hallway. Down the steps. Out of the house. Across the lawn. He only stops when he finds the pond in front of him. Plopping himself to the ground, he picks up a rock and hurls it into the water. He watches the ripples spread, then fade. Raising his knees in front of him, he wraps his arms around them and bows his head. 

Why is it he can never find the right words? Never. People around him hurt themselves, hurt each other, and all he can do is stand there, watch the damage, and get hurt himself if he tries to intervene but without even helping anyone. Is it going to be like that his entire life? What's the point, then? Maybe Sherlock is right about not wanting to feel anymore.

It’s a long time before he hears steps behind him. He wipes his face surreptitiously but doesn’t look back. A moment passes in silence, and then… music. Unexpected, beautiful, haunting music. John has to look back. He can’t not look back.

Sherlock is standing a small distance away. The first thing John notices is that he’s barefoot in the grass. Then his gaze sweeps up, travels up to the rumpled shirt Sherlock was already wearing yesterday; the left sleeve is still rolled up, but the bruise at the crook of his elbow is hidden, his fingers curled tenderly over the violin from which he coaxes a slow, sad melody. John’s eyes follow the bow for a minute or two as it slides elegantly along the strings. Soon, though, he looks at Sherlock’s face. His eyes are closed, his lips barely parted. He looks just like his music: beyond words.

It’s an apology, John realizes after a little while. Every note, every sound is an apology. Sherlock can’t say ‘I’m sorry’. If he tried, the actual words would be anywhere on a spectrum that goes from odd to ridiculous to comical. John would get his meaning, sure, but they wouldn’t be Sherlock’s words, Sherlock’s voice – not in the way the violin is. So John listens, lets the music sink down to his very soul, and when Sherlock finally stops, a final note lingering in the air between them, he waits until Sherlock opens his eyes to whisper, “Thank you.” Anything louder would feel wrong, right now.

Sherlock replies with a small, tentative smile. He shuffles forward and sits down, cradling violin and bow to his chest. His toes curl into the grass.

“The moon is too far to sing,” he says after a moment.

_I hadn’t played in a long time._

“How come? You’re very good. And you looked like…” John remembers the last time he said Sherlock looked a certain way, and what happened next. He forges ahead anyway. He’s not going to tiptoe around Sherlock. If there are mines there, he might as well detonate them. “You looked like you enjoyed it.”

No explosion.

“The rocks fished it by the bridge. Unceremoniously.”

_The school confiscated it my first year there. They said it wasn’t allowed._

“Well that’s just not right,” John says, outraged on Sherlock’s behalf. Why would something so beautiful not be allowed? It’s completely ridiculous. And that they’d take it from a Prophet, of all people! 

“They’re idiots,” he adds, and catches Sherlock’s eye roll. _Obviously._

“Play some more?” he asks quietly, both because he wants to hear another melody and because he wants to see that look on Sherlock’s face again.

“What flavor?”

“I don’t know. Anything.” And then, more quietly, “Play how you felt yesterday before you decided not to feel anymore.”

Sherlock had begun raising the violin to his neck. He lowers it again and stares at John, his eyes unreadable. John holds his gaze and waits. Sherlock slowly lowers his eyelids, raises the violin again. He rests the bow on the strings, and for a minute, maybe even two, he’s absolutely still. The first note is a surprise, a shrill explosion of joyous sound, colorful and immense. Happy. It sounds a bit like Sherlock did when he was explaining his experiment yesterday, something to do with the characteristics of various salts from a number of places and the many ways to differentiate them.

John lies down in the grass, arms curled behind his head, and tenses as he waits for the moment when everything will change. It comes all too soon.

A few notes ring differently, lighter, brighter, like a voice – his voice, John realizes. This is when he broke everything without even knowing he did.

The rest of it is pain.

Oh, it’s still beautiful. Each note rings true, no hesitation, no slip of the bow as Sherlock’s fingers guide it precisely over the instrument. But it’s the kind of beauty that leaves John’s heart feeling raw and exposed, aching with each beat, struggling in a too-tight chest, longing for peace.

John asked for Sherlock’s feelings, and it’s exactly what he’s being offered. He doesn’t just hear them, though. He feels them. Every agonizing pang, every hint of loneliness and cold and regret and so many things, all crammed in a melody that gradually slows down, each note quieter than the last, until there’s nothing left but silence.

Without thinking, John reaches out toward Sherlock. His hand curls automatically when it makes contact, and only when he feels Sherlock flinch under his fingers does he realize he grabbed the inside of Sherlock’s elbow, where yesterday he saw a trace of blood, where a bruise bloomed since then.

He doesn’t let go.

*

They stay out all morning. In the end, it’s hunger that brings them back to the house – or at least, John’s hunger. He hasn’t had anything since that laced tea last night, and nothing since breakfast before that. He’s starving. He’s not sure when Sherlock last ate something. Too long ago, certainly, and he doesn’t seem inclined to eat now either, taking his violin up to his room while John starts toward the kitchen.

The cook is in there, and she asks whether the lasagna she made for dinner would make an acceptable lunch, and whether ‘Young Mister Holmes’ will be joining John. There’s a trace of worry in her words, and John has a sudden inkling how Mycroft knew to come home. All of a sudden, John likes the old woman a whole lot more.

With her help, he fills a tray with lasagna, cake, juice – two servings of each. When he takes it all upstairs, he finds Sherlock on his bed, running a soft-looking cloth over every nook and cranny of the violin. His fingers have never seemed so long and elegant. He barely glances up to John before returning to his task.

John sets the tray on the desk, earning himself a reproachful look when he has to push the microscope out of the way. He starts on the lasagna, taking a few mouthfuls before he says, “If you eat, I’ll tell you how we’ll get you new supplies for your experiments.”

The way Sherlock’s head snaps up is perfect. John hides a grin into his glass, and despite Sherlock’s protests doesn’t say another word until the tray is completely empty.

*

When John finishes talking, Sherlock’s eyes are blazing. His lips are pinched tight.

“Your choice,” John repeats. “Those are my terms. You can complain and argue all you want, they’re not gonna change. Up to you what you want most.”

Sherlock stands abruptly and strides to the window. He throws it open and leans against the sill. Is that his answer? Hard to tell. He’s not happy, that much is clear, but how upset is he, really? Maybe he needs a moment to think?

“I’ll take this back to the kitchen,” John says, standing and picking up the tray of empty plates. “Be right back.”

He snaps his mouth shut, stopping himself before he can add, ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’

When he comes back a few minutes later, Sherlock is sitting on the floor, and John’s heart misses a beat at the feeling of déjà vu. But no, he didn’t shoot up again. He’s just sitting, cross-legged, head bowed, both hands resting on a metal box in front of him.

John steps closer then sits across from him. Sherlock’s hair hides his eyes, so John’s gaze drops to the box. Engraved in the metal, roses stand in sharp relief, each petal as delicate as though it were real.

There are thorns, too.

It’s an incongruous object in a teenage boy’s room, or so John thinks until he realizes what it probably is: a jewelry box. A woman’s jewelry box. A dead woman’s memento.

Slowly, one millimeter at a time, Sherlock starts to push the box toward John. Even when it’s against John’s leg, Sherlock’s hands remain pressed to the top for another few seconds. When he pulls back, his reluctance is inscribed in every gesture.

“Smashed glass,” he mutters.

_My choice._

John flips the lid open, and he’s not surprised by what he finds. His throat tightens a bit as he counts the small white packets and syringes still wrapped in plastic. He’d ask where Sherlock got all these, but it’d feel like pushing his luck.

“Is that all of it?” he asks, closing the lid again.

“Rabbits.”

When an interpreter listens to a Prophet, he hears the actual words the Prophet says, and feels the meaning the Prophet wants to convey. Never until this moment had John felt/heard something else on top of that, a discordant meaning: the truth, as opposed to the lie Sherlock uttered.

“Right,” he says calmly. “We’re going to pretend what you said was no. I’m going to go dispose of these. And when I come back you’ll have the rest of it out for me. Then I’ll ask again if that’s all of it. And if you lie to me again, the deal is off.”

He leaves. Flushes the white packets down the toilet. Empties the rest of the box in the trash bin in the kitchen. With a wet rag, he washes away the residue inside the box, then dries it with a paper towel. By the time he comes back to Sherlock’s room, there’s a second box on the floor. This one’s a cigar box, thinner than the jewelry box but a little wider. Another memento?

Sherlock’s on his bed, hands joined under his chin. Before John can ask, he says in a cold voice, “The kittens escaped.”

John sets the metal box on the bed next to him, then picks up the other one.

“Thank you.”

Sherlock doesn’t say another word to him for two days.

*

“You realize I hope that I’m putting a lot of trust in you with this.”

Mycroft sounds like he might just change his mind. He’s not letting go of the box quite yet, holding on with his fingertips even though John already took hold of it.

“I thought you said I should trust my instincts,” John replies, tugging at the box.

Mycroft finally releases it. “I did, but I didn’t expect you’d call to ask for this.”

John shrugs, lifting the top of the packing box to peer in. Sachets and small bottles and vials. He has no clue what all of these are, but he has a feeling Sherlock will know.

“What did you expect, then?” he asks absently, pulling a stone from a nest of tissue paper. A stone? What the hell is Sherlock going to do with a stone?

When a moment passes with no answer, he looks at Mycroft. He’s scrutinizing John in a way that feels very familiar – the same way Sherlock does, sometimes.

“And you are sure he surrendered everything?” he asks, despite having asked over the phone two days ago.

“Absolutely sure. He can’t lie to me… but you know that, don’t you?”

Mycroft inclines his head once. 

“Don’t you want to give it to him?” John offers. “Like... a peace offering?”

Mycroft’s smile doesn’t touch his eyes. “We’re beyond that, I’m afraid. Better you give it to him, since it was your idea.”

“All right. What about the other thing?”

“Oh, that was no problem, of course. I trust you will tell him about that, too?”

John is grinning all the way to Sherlock’s room. His grin only widens when Sherlock, as hard as he tries to remain aloof, can’t manage to hide his excitement.

*

Another few weeks pass, and life in the manor settles into quiet normality – if it’s normal to be awakened in the middle of the night by a weeping violin or muffled explosions.

The explosions, John ignores as well as he can – although it can be hard when they are accompanied by foul-smelling gas. One night, the stench is so bad that they end up dragging pillows and blankets outside, and sleeping under the stars. How Mycroft interpreted ‘Get him some inoffensive supplies for his experiments’ into meaning ‘Get him stuff he can make explosions and tear gas with’, John can’t quite understand. It must be a Holmes thing.

The violin, on the other hand, he never ignores. Its sound is like an alarm, and John trained himself to respond to it. He stumbles out of bed whenever he hears it, takes his pillow and blanket into Sherlock’s room, settles in his spot against the wall. Neither completely awake nor fully asleep, he stays there as long as Sherlock plays. At times, Sherlock doesn’t even seem to realize John is there, but there’s always a point when he stops, opens his eyes, looks around him. And when he sees John there, he smiles.

*

As the end of the summer looms, a weekend brings unexpected visitors. John had forgotten all about his birthday; no one ever made a big deal out of it, and certainly not his mother and sister, now exclaiming about how good he looks and how nice it is to see him after all this time and really he should call more, or write, and why didn’t he tell them his friend’s home was such a lovely place, they could have visited earlier.

The entire time, all he can think is, this is Mycroft’s way of punishing him for not stopping Sherlock from shooting up. Mycroft certainly looks awfully pleased with himself as he sips on his tea in the sitting room – and even more pleased when he excuses himself, “Work matters, you see,” so he doesn’t have to deal with his guests.

The day drags as John shows his family around the estate and they ask too many questions about ‘that Prophet of his.’ Sherlock, upon meeting them, immediately announced he had some very important things to do and should not be disturbed. All day long, the ‘click’ of his door being locked keeps echoing through John’s mind.

At nightfall, at last, a black car comes pick up John’s mother and Harry. John manages to maintain the smile as he waves goodbye, but not any longer than that. Returning to the dining room where the cook served them a veritable feast, he leaves the half-unwrapped jumper on the table and serves a generous portion of cake onto the plate that was set for Sherlock but remained unused. As he goes up, he can hear muffled accords of violin, and his heart tightens a bit. How bad is it?

He knocks on the door almost hesitantly. Sherlock opens at once. His eyes seem feverish, his hair mussed up as though he raked his fingers through it. For a brief instant, John almost wants to ask if he took something, but already Sherlock is ushering him inside, taking the plate from him and setting it on the desk, perilously close to the edge.

“The clocks didn’t ring close enough,” he says, speaking very fast and sounding a little manic. Holding his violin and bow in one hand, he pushes and pulls John to his bed with the other, making him sit down there then shoving a few pieces of paper in his hands. “Horses danced and dances and waltzed but they stepped on their fingers.”

It makes no sense for a moment, to the point that John wonders if he lost his gift to interpret. And then Sherlock starts playing, and everything becomes luminous.

Sherlock forgot about John’s birthday. (How he – or Mycroft – even knew about it, John has no idea.) He forgot, so he had no gift ready. So he wrote this piece of music. And it’s not very good – he says – but it’s the best he can do on such short notice. And he wrote it down for John, so even when he’s gone, John can still have it - can still remember Sherlock.

The papers in John’s hands are sheet music. John learned a bit of clarinet, so he’s seen something like this before, but this is more intricate than anything he’s ever laid his eyes on, let alone played. He doesn’t look at it for long, though. How could he, when Sherlock is in front of him, eyes open, for once, and… playing is such an inadequate word for what he’s doing right now. 

It’s like watching, hearing, feeling a universe come to life right in front of him, stars being born in myriads of colors, explosions that are true symphonies, heat like warm fingers curling over his heart. It lasts for hours, it seems. But it’s still much too short.

When Sherlock finally stops, he’s breathing hard. He blinks a few times, looks at John, then frowns.

“John?” he murmurs, and what he’s asking in that small, pained voice is, “Did you not like it at all? Is that why you’re crying?”

John hastily wipes his cheeks, feeling them heat up in embarrassment under his hands. He hadn’t even noticed he was crying.

“It was beautiful,” he says, even though ‘beautiful’ is so far from what he really means. He just doesn’t have a better word for it. “It’s the most beautiful thing I ever heard. The most beautiful present I was ever given. Thank you.”

Sherlock smiles. That, too, is beautiful. They share the piece of cake John brought up. And John is oh, so glad that Sherlock can’t read anything beyond the surface of John’s words, because he’s pretty sure what he just said was, ‘I love you.’


	3. Matters of Trust

A week after John’s birthday, Sherlock shatters his trust. Possibly his heart, too.

They’re due back to the Academy the next day. John has been packing, and he knows Sherlock has been doing the same – or at least he should be. He’s been moody, these past few days, feverishly finishing whatever experiments he’s been working on, not talking much at all unless John repeats the same question two or three times. Not eating much either, but that’s always a given. Not playing his violin as often, and John calls himself an idiot when he figures out why: Sherlock is weaning himself off the instrument, believing he’ll have to leave it behind again. John thought it’d make a nice surprise for their last day of freedom, but now he wishes he’d told him sooner.

Crossing the hall, he’s already grinning in anticipation of Sherlock’s reaction as he says, “Hey Sherlock, there’s something I forgot to tell you.”

His grin wavers then fades when his gaze finds Sherlock. He’s sitting on his bed, his suitcase open next to him. His back is to the door, maybe in hopes of hiding what he’s doing. But John can see the box in front of him. And he knows, with a certainty that guts him, what’s inside it.

The both of them are very still for a long moment. When Sherlock bows his head ever so slightly, John murmurs, “How? You didn’t lie. I was so sure you didn’t lie.”

“Lions in the unending fall don’t jump. Not even yellow.”

_I didn’t lie. They weren’t in the house._

John remembers, then, how Sherlock didn’t let him ask when he came back for the second box. He gave him a readymade answer, probably carefully worded not to raise any alarm. _That’s all I had in the house._

It never occurred to John to ask about outside the house.

“Have you been… All this time?”

Even as he asks, he can’t help but wonder. When? How did he not see? At night, maybe? Smaller doses so John wouldn’t notice? Or…

“No.”

It’s rare when the sound and the meaning match.

Sherlock turns around, drawing the box onto his knees. When he looks up at John, his eyes are dark, and… something new.

Pleading.

“Just paradise birds. Not for cooking.”

_I just like knowing I have them. Not to use them, just to have them._

“You still lied to me,” John says tonelessly. “I asked for all of it. Not just what was in the house. You played me, Sherlock. Played me for a sucker. And you were going to take them to school on top of it.”

He doesn’t know what else he can say, so he turns on his heel to go back to his room. What’s the point of even asking Sherlock to give that box to him? He might have another one stashed somewhere. Multiple other ones.

He’s going to die, he’s going to kill himself whether on purpose or by accident, and there’s nothing John can do about it. Is there?

Remembering something, he pauses and adds without looking back, “You can take your violin to school. Mycroft got you a special permission from the Headmaster. As long as you don’t play in the dorm, they’ll let you keep it.”

His message delivered, he walks stiffly back across the hall and closes the door. As he stands in the middle of the room, he feels drained. All this time, he thought that he was helping. He liked to think he was helping. He was even a little bit proud. But as it turns out, he doesn’t even make a good enough security blanket. A bunch of drugs in a box are more comforting than he is.

He’s not sure how long he stands there, aimless, mind blank, heart aching. Not sure how much time passes until the first violin notes rise. He starts moving at once, the way he trained himself. Violin means go to Sherlock. Be there.

He stops at the door, his hand on the handle. Not this time, he tells himself forcefully. It’s going to take more than a musical apology this time.

He sits on the bed, hands clasped in front of him. Sherlock plays that same violin piece he played by the pond, the one that, to John, sounds like an apology. It’s from Bach, John has learned since.

By the time the violin runs out of words, John is almost proud of himself for not caving in.

After a short pause, Sherlock starts playing again, and it gets even harder. This is John’s birthday song. The one whose music sheets John folded very carefully and tucked inside his favorite book. He bows his head, closes his eyes, lets the music wash over him.

One day, too soon, all he’ll have left will be the music sheets and this – memories.

He doesn’t want them to be bad memories.

When the violin falls silent again, he takes a deep breath and stands. He steps out of his room, but doesn’t enter Sherlock’s.

“I was going down for dinner,” he says, his throat tight and his voice low. “Will you come with me?”

The box is still on Sherlock’s bed. Still closed. Next to it, the violin case is open. Sherlock tucks the violin inside it, then turns and offers John a small nod. His eyes are clear, his smile tentative. John still hurts, but he tries to smile back.

*

The next morning, when John wakes up, there’s a metal box at the foot of his bed. It’s a bit rusty. A bit dusty, too. It’s the kind of metal tin that held fancy biscuits at some point. What it holds now is a lot more dangerous than an excess of sugar. John dutifully gets rid of it all. He tries not to wonder whether there’s more – or whether Sherlock might have kept one or two of the small white packages and syringes.

Later, when John comes out of his room, Sherlock is just walking out of his, his suitcase in one hand, his violin case in the other. When he pauses, John sets down his own luggage and gives him what has to be the most awkward hug he’s ever offered anyone.

They don’t talk. There’s nothing that needs to be said right now.

*

Back at the Academy, they’re summoned to see the Headmaster before they’re even done unpacking. He makes it clear that the violin is a privilege that can be revoked if abused – or if Sherlock continues keeping his mouth shut and refusing to deliver Messages.

Sherlock’s answer is that the man’s wife cheats on him with both of his sisters and will leave him before the end of the year.

With great difficulty, John keeps a straight face and says, “He understands, sir. He’ll do his best.”

Sherlock throws John an eyeroll, but he doesn’t say anything more.

Later, John convinces him. Once a week, they’ll give the Headmaster something he can share with the Minister of the Future. Sherlock hates it, but when John points out it’s that or the violin, he caves in.

*

Classes start again, as challenging as ever. There’s a new Biology teacher as John suspected. Sally Donovan transferred to another Academy. Their dorm mates have made it an art to ignore both John and Sherlock, which suits John just fine. Sherlock doesn’t seem to even notice.

All in all, it’s just more of the same – except for that time between the end of classes and dinner. John still uses those three hours to do his homework and study, but he now does so outside, his books and notebooks spread out around him at the foot of the largest, oldest tree on the school’s grounds. It’s not ideal, and when the weather turns colder they’ll have to figure out something else, but for now it’s a nice place for Sherlock to play the violin.

He didn’t play that often back at the manor, but back there he had his experiments to distract him. Or maybe he’s catching up for all the years he was forbidden to play at school. Whatever the case, John doesn’t mind a bit of music as he works. He really doesn’t mind at all.

A month in, just as the leaves are starting to fall, they get a visitor. John searches his memory for a while for the name of the girl timidly approaching them from the side. Molly. That’s it, Molly Hooper. They have a couple classes together. She’s looking at Sherlock, completely enraptured, and John knows he’s looked like that more than once himself. Smiling, he catches her attention and pats the ground next to him. Her cheeks pink up and she comes sit down by the tree, knees raised in front of her and her arms around them. She doesn’t move again, doesn’t make a sound until Sherlock’s bow comes to a slow stop, drawing out one last note, and he opens his eyes.

When she claps wildly, he blinks, then frowns; no doubt he didn’t even notice her coming closer. He can spot signs of hijinks about to take a turn for the worse from across the cafeteria and with his nose in a book, but when he’s playing, the world could collapse around him and he might not notice. It makes John feel a bit lonely, sometimes; makes him wish Sherlock would play with his eyes open.

“That… that was beautiful,” Molly says, stuttering a little, her cheeks now scarlet. “Is it okay? Can I… can I listen? I’ve heard you before but I didn’t dare come closer I didn’t want to bother you but this was just so beautiful and I couldn’t help myself is it all right?”

It comes out in a long, breathless rush of words. Sherlock blinks at her again, then turns his attention to John.

“The elephants trample everything.”

_Tell her if she wants music, she can just turn on the radio. We don’t need any of these bloody idiots bothering us._

Until now, John was smiling, amused by Molly’s antics. He’s not smiling anymore. Sherlock can be terribly direct and to the point, but this is rude, even for him. John holds his eyes even as he turns his head a little toward Molly and says, “It’s perfectly fine. You’re not bothering him at all.”

Molly is ecstatic; Sherlock… shocked. He packs his violin and starts back toward the dorms, leaving John to scramble to get his things in order. Molly helps, although her attention is clearly on Sherlock.

For the rest of the day, Sherlock pouts. He’d deny it if John called it that to his face, but really, that’s what it is: pouting. At some point, John tires of it.

“She didn’t do anything wrong, you didn’t even notice she was there, and your rudeness was completely uncalled for.”

“The song’s all wrong,” Sherlock snaps.

_You’re supposed to say exactly what I say._

“No, that’d be translating. I’m supposed to interpret. I interpreted. Get over it. She likes your music, so what? It’s not like she’s the only one.”

It’s stupid, but his cheeks heat up on the last words. Sherlock’s mouth opens for a retort, then closes again without a word.

The next day, Molly comes by again. Sherlock doesn’t protest. Granted, he doesn’t acknowledge her either, but he’s not actively rude, so that’s something.

It goes on like this for a week, then comes to an abrupt stop the day Molly brings a tin of biscuits. She waits until Sherlock is done before opening the lid and holding them out to him with trembling hands and a shy smile. Sherlock looks at the biscuits, at her, then turns away, fiddling with the strings of his violin. Molly is crestfallen, but she puts up a good front as she offers the tin to John. He feels bad for her, so he gives her an extra-wide smile along with a warm thank you.

“Her cards are all wrong,” Sherlock says, still facing away but loud enough that his words ring clear.

John winces and stuffs a biscuit in his mouth so he can’t be expected to speak.

“Is he… is he saying something about me?” Molly whispers. “He said ‘her’. Is that me? Is it the wrong kind of treats? I could bring scones next time.”

John shakes his head and swallows a bit too fast. “No, nothing like that. They’re very good, thank you.”

But Sherlock won’t let it go. He whirls back toward them and comes closer, crouching in front of John.

“Her cards are all wrong,” he repeats. “Change the station. The tulips die out faster in the spring.”

By the time he finishes, his voice is too loud and he’s pointing at Molly with his bow.

“He _is_ talking about me,” she says, her voice trembling. “Tell me, John. Please? What did he say?”

“Change. The. Station.”

_Tell her._

John’s insides twist. He closes his eyes so he won’t see Sherlock’s furious eyes anymore, or Molly’s pleading ones.

“He said… He said you’re not special. Your parents told you a Prophet said you’d cure some disease or other, but the truth is they bought your way in here. So when you don’t cure anything, you shouldn’t feel bad.”

He doesn’t need to look to know Molly is rising to her feet and running away.

“Light is brighter,” Sherlock says, calmer now.

John shakes his head. He opens his eyes, and notices Molly left the tin behind. The biscuits spilled out. Sherlock is standing, adjusting the tension of the strings again although they sounded perfectly fine when he was playing.

“No,” John murmurs, “that was not the kind thing to do. What was wrong with her believing she was special? It’s not like she goes around throwing her arrogance in everyone’s face. She’s one of the nice ones in here.”

“Masks don’t float.”

At that, John frowns.

_She’s not good enough for you._

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Sherlock shrugs, turning his back to John, and John can only stare, incredulous.

“You call them idiots, but really, what are you?”

That earns him a dark glare from Sherlock, but John isn’t done.

“She wasn’t here for me. She didn’t bring treats for _me_. How can you of all people be so blind? She’s got a crush on you. God only knows why, seeing how you’ve never been anything other than rude or mean to her.”

A fleeting look of surprise crosses Sherlock’s face, but he shakes his head and all but growls, “Why aren’t the chairs lined up?”

_Are you going to pretend you don’t like her?_

“Like I said, she’s _nice_ ,” John snaps, gathering his work. “She doesn’t call you names behind your back like half the others do. It doesn’t mean I _like_ her. And even if I did like her, why would you even care?”

He didn’t mean to ask that last question, didn’t mean to be looking straight into Sherlock’s eyes when he does, didn’t mean to sound so hopeful. He looks away before Sherlock can see too much; small chance that it hasn’t happened already. They go back to the dorm without finishing that conversation.

That evening, at dinner, Sherlock stands again just moments after they’ve sat down. John’s head snaps up and he looks, confused, as Sherlock walks away, his stride long, his back stiff. Before John can decide whether to follow, Sherlock reaches his goal. Molly is just getting out of the line and looking for a place to sit. Sherlock takes the tray from her hands, and even from a distance John can see he’s being gentle about it. When Sherlock starts coming back toward their small table, Molly looks momentarily confused. She follows after a second of hesitation, and sits at the head of the table, where Sherlock set down her tray before returning to his book.

“Pretty sure that was an apology,” John says softly. “And you have mine, too, for what it’s worth.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t make her eyes any less red.

She doesn’t come to the big tree the next day, but the day after that, she does. And brings scones.

*

They dutifully keep going to the Headmaster’s office once a week. Sherlock’s mouth always twists as though he’d tasted something bitter when he gives out Messages about a plane crash, an earthquake, a gas explosion, the kidnapped child of a junior minister.

One time, the Message is about a string of suicides that have been shaking London. Six of them already, first page of every newspaper every day. According to Sherlock, they’re murders, and the police should look for a cab driver in his late forties to mid-sixties, living alone, possibly with a medical condition.

The Headmaster writes it all down. He’s already on the phone before they even step out of his office.

“That didn’t sound like a prophecy,” John murmurs as they walk away. “It wasn’t very precise either.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply.

“Did you _know_ all that or did you figure it out from all those news articles you’ve been reading?”

A small smile, a quick look, and John is left to chuckle quietly.

“Amazing,” he breathes.

Sherlock looks away, but not before John notices the smile growing a bit wider.

*

As autumn drifts toward winter, the weather draws them back inside. Three times a week, the auditorium is empty, and they are permitted to use it. It’s better than nothing, John says reasonably when Sherlock grumbles.

Sherlock never gets on stage; he plays from the front of the room, John sitting with his work in the front row. Sometimes, Molly joins them, sitting in the back. Sometimes, she brings a friend or two. Sometimes more.

The news has been spreading through the school that Sherlock finally started giving Messages. There’s even a rumor – correct, surprisingly enough – that without his warning a lot more people would have died in that explosion in the south of the country. There isn’t so much hostility toward him, these days. Which of course he couldn’t care less about. John, though, is happy on his friend’s behalf.

When Mycroft visits, John doesn’t leave the room anymore. Mycroft’s praises at Sherlock’s newfound interest in helping his country are met with scorn. Their conversations are… kinda childish, John thinks. They sound like he and Harry did when they were just kids. He tries not to let them see him grin.

On the last visit before the Christmas vacation, as he gets ready to leave, Mycroft says, “Your mother said it’d be all right for you to stay with us for the holidays, John. If that’s what you want.”

Of course it is.

*

The first snow over the estate is near magical.

Where John grew up, snow turned to a gray mush faster than kids could play in it. He hasn’t had a snowball fight since that big storm when he was eight or nine. He’s a bit old for that now, but that doesn’t stop him from dragging Sherlock outside.

For all of his protests and mutters that this is childish and he has to check on his experiment with the lizard tails – and John never wants to know where he got those – Sherlock gets into the game. They chase each other around the manor, pelting each other with snow, laughing so much that eventually they collapse in the snow side by side, breathing hard, cold and warm all at the same time. Arms spread out on either side of him, John looks up to the slowly darkening sky and thinks that this very well might be what being happy, truly happy, feels like.

Sherlock’s face suddenly appears above him, upside down as he kneels behind John. Before John can even wonder what he’s up to, Sherlock leans down and presses his mouth to John’s. A small gasp of surprise parts John’s lips and Sherlock’s tongue presses in at once, hesitant and almost careful as it touches John’s. John returns the caress just as gently. He clenches his gloved fingers in the snow rather than grab Sherlock as he so wants to and pull him over so they have a better angle.

After mere seconds, Sherlock pulls back, though only far enough to look into John’s eyes.

“The aurora borealis took wings,” he murmurs.

_I got tired of waiting for you to kiss me first._

John laughs and rolls over. Getting up to his knees, he gets closer to Sherlock and starts raising his hands. Thinking better of it, he pulls his gloves off so that his fingers are bare when he cups Sherlock’s face and draws him in for a proper kiss.

They’re freezing by the time they get back inside. John doesn’t mind a bit. He doesn’t think Sherlock minds either.

*

Over the next few days, they both refine their technique. John had never kissed a boy before. It’s mostly the same as kissing a girl, and still it feels totally different. He likes it a lot. He suspects Sherlock had never kissed anyone, boy or girl, but he knows better than to ask.

They make it a challenge of kissing in just about every room in the manor. The master bedroom on the second floor is out of bounds, but everything else is fair game.

On Saturday evening, at dinner, Mycroft is reading the paper while eating. Without looking up, and in a perfectly calm voice, he says, “From now on, you’ll be so kind as to keep your displays of affection out of my bedroom.”

John’s face feels on fire, all of a sudden. Sherlock, on the other hand, all but exudes smugness. When he opens his mouth, John can practically read the pointed barbs he’s about to deliver in the curve of his lips and the glint in his eyes. Without thinking, John reaches for his hand on the table and squeezes it once. Sherlock’s eyes turn to John, questioning. John shakes his head. Sherlock frowns, then shrugs. Mycroft’s gaze never lifted from his newspaper, and still he comments, “At least one of you is above behaving like a child.”

Sherlock huffs as he stands from the table.

_One out of all three of us, you mean._

John wasn’t done with his dinner, but he still follows Sherlock out of the dining room and to the library. They haven’t kissed in there yet.

*

Two days before Christmas, John makes a mistake.

He insists that they should have a tree, and even when Sherlock staunchly refuses, calling the whole idea ‘ridiculous’, John goes to the groundskeeper. They find a small tree in the woods at the back of the estate. They set it up in the library, and the cook-slash-maid pulls out a dust-covered storage box from somewhere; it's filled with decorations.

John is still untangling a fragile-looking garland when he notices Sherlock standing just outside the room, his gaze unreadable.

“Come help me,” he says with his best smile. “It’ll be fun.”

Sherlock’s expression twists into something ugly, something frightening, something that makes John think of small packages filled with white powder and dark, empty eyes. Before he can catch his breath, Sherlock storms off.

Abandoning the bare tree and its decorations, John stumbles to his feet and runs after him. He reaches Sherlock’s room just in time to have the door slammed in his face. The lock clicks shut.

“Sherlock, come on, open the door, talk to me.”

John’s knocking and pleas remain unanswered.

“I just thought it’d be nice to put my gift for you under a tree,” he tries to explain to the closed door. “I’ll just… get rid of it, okay? Just open the door, please.”

Still no reply.

“Sherlock?”

Not a single sound rises from inside the room.

“Sherlock, please.” John is kneeling behind the door. He’s not quite sure when he slid down to his knees. His hand still clutches the handle, but the door remains locked. In his mind, all he can see is the crook of Sherlock’s elbow, so pale, so easily bruised. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Please. Don’t do anything stupid because of me. Please. Please.”

The lock clicks open without warning. The handle slides, the door yields under John’s hand. He kneels there, looking up at Sherlock just inside the room. His expression, like his voice, are colder than ice.

“What is the table turning inside out?”

_What stupid thing am I supposed not to do exactly?_

Implied is the fact that he surrendered everything he had. That he put his mental health, pretty much literally, in John’s hands. But what happens when John is the one hurting him?

“I’m sorry,” John offers again, getting back to his feet. “I’ll get rid of the tree. I’ll put the decorations away.”

The smallest of flinches on the word ‘decorations’, a breath hissing out, and John suddenly knows at what time of the year Sherlock’s parents died. He knows the tree stayed up until after the funeral. He knows Sherlock, all of seven years old, packed away the ornaments, making a mess of the garlands. He knows there hasn’t been a Christmas tree in this house for nine years. He knows just how much Sherlock hurts at this very moment.

What he doesn’t know is how to make things better.

“I’m sorry,” he says one last time. He takes a step closer and, when Sherlock doesn’t move, crosses those last few inches between them. As gently as he knows how, he wraps both arms around Sherlock, draws him close. For a long, long moment, Sherlock doesn’t react in any way. Then he makes a sound like a small hiccup and buries his face in the crook of John’s neck, both his hands fisting the back of John’s jumper.

“I know,” John whispers, his heart aching alongside Sherlock’s. “I know. It’ll be okay.”

A while later, Sherlock pulls back, muttering something about experiments and data that need to be collected. John releases him and watches for a couple minutes as Sherlock sits in front of his microscope.

“Is it okay if I leave you for a little while?” John asks. “I won’t be gone long.”

Sherlock doesn’t bother answering and just waves him off.

John goes and gets rid of the tree, like he said he would. He closes the decorations box again, and goes to the kitchen to ask the cook where he should put it. She gives him a sad look and says she’ll take care of it. Dinner is ready, so John takes a tray up to Sherlock’s room. He finds him exactly where he left him, behind the microscope, making small notes on a spreadsheet that even John can’t interpret.

First John sets the tray on the bed, then he catches Sherlock’s hand and, very gently, pulls him to sit on the bed next to him. Sherlock's face takes that long-suffering expression that’d be more appropriate if he were being tortured, but he eats a little before returning to his microscope and the secrets it conceals. 

John watches him work, and wishes he could put Sherlock under a microscope, find out everything about him, and make sure he never hurts again, because of John or anything else.

He doesn’t remember lying down or dozing off. He wakes up, briefly, when Sherlock draws a blanket over him. The tray is gone, and so are his shoes.

“I should go to bed,” he mumbles, still half asleep.

“The mail came in,” Sherlock replies, already back behind the microscope.

_You are in bed._

Is it an invitation to stay? That’s what it sounds like. John closes his eyes, telling himself that in just a minute he’ll go back to his own room. Just a minute, or maybe two. He just feels warm and toasty, and the pillow under his cheek smells like Sherlock. It's nice. Very nice.

He doesn’t wake again until morning, but even then he doesn’t leave. How could he when Sherlock is lying next to him, his arm around John’s waist, his head tucked in under John’s chin?

John closes his eyes again, though he’s not sleepy anymore. It’s not Christmas morning, but it sure feels like it. He’s just not sure he did anything to deserve this gift.


	4. Warnings

John is trapped between a rock and a hard place – and there’s a pun in there waiting to be made, a burst of nervous laughter trying to escape.

He’s in his… friend’s? Boyfriend’s? They’ve been snogging for almost a week, surely he can call Sherlock his boyfriend, even if it’s only in his own mind.

He’s in his boyfriend’s bed, with said boyfriend clinging to him, chest to chest and oh, those quiet breaths of Sherlock’s against his neck are driving him crazy.

He’s also hard. Achingly so.

Sherlock… not so much, but then he’s still sound asleep, so John tries not to read too much in that.

The problem is, Sherlock probably won’t sleep much longer. He never seems to sleep very long. So he’s going to wake up, and find John’s cock pressed to his stomach. And John has a feeling it’ll be a really awkward start to Christmas’ Eve.

The answer, of course, is to pull away and leave the bed – but if he does that, he’ll wake Sherlock. Surely a little more sleep wouldn’t hurt him.

So John stays where he is, nervousness slowly rising inside him, wanting to move and yet unable to leave the warm cocoon of Sherlock’s arms.

“Pull the blinds,” Sherlock mutters suddenly, the words muffled against John’s shirt.

_You think too loudly._

John lets out a quiet, startled laugh.

“You can’t read minds,” he chides, and can’t stop himself from nuzzling Sherlock’s tousled hair.

“So the candles burn faster.”

_No, but I can read your body._

John freezes, his breath catching in his throat. After a beat, he tries to pull away, but Sherlock’s arm around him tightens just a hair. Sherlock makes a sound, half snuffles, half protest, and to John it sounds like, “Where do you think you’re going? You’re all warm and comfy and I haven’t slept this good in forever.”

There’s no mention of his hard-on in that. Does that mean it’s a non-issue? Or maybe Sherlock is still too sleepy to have noticed? Hard to believe, but—

“Pull the blinds,” Sherlock mumbles again, yawning.

So John closes his eyes and tries to stop thinking.

*

Mycroft shows up for Christmas’ Eve dinner. He has to go back to London by morning, he says – at which point Sherlock makes a rather disparaging comment about the state of the country if it can’t run without Mycroft for one day. John doesn’t know whether to be glad he doesn’t have to interpret for Mycroft, or feel awkward that Mycroft understands every word that comes out of Sherlock’s mouth.

It feels a little disloyal to even think so, but he understands why Mycroft isn’t all that interested in spending too much time at the manor. Who would, when Sherlock can be such a pain?

Then again, no Mycroft means more time alone, so John isn’t exactly complaining.

Sherlock picks at his food, throwing glances every so often at John’s plate as though to check whether he’s almost done. 

“Why don’t you just go back to your experiments?” Mycroft asks with a sigh. “It’s clear you want to.”

Sherlock gives him a blank look. “You don’t empty the closet.”

_I’m not leaving him alone with you._

John’s fork stops halfway to his mouth and he watches the two brothers, wondering what he missed. Judging from Mycroft’s slight smile, he knows exactly what Sherlock means.

“Honestly,” he says. “You really want to be here when I do it?”

John sets his fork down as he grows alarmed. Do it? Do what? Why wouldn’t Sherlock want to be there? What is going on?

His sudden nervousness must be obvious, because both Sherlock and Mycroft look at him. Their expressions couldn’t be more different. Fierceness lights up Sherlock’s eyes, whereas Mycroft’s are flat and dark as they consider John.

“Very well,” Mycroft says. “We’ll do it this way, then. John, do you remember when you said you believed I was ‘the government’? You weren’t really far off, to be honest. So let me just say this. I could make your entire existence absolutely miserable without trying all that hard.”

John blinks. His throat feels very tight. He’s still not sure what this is about, although he’s beginning to suspect it has to do with his relationship with Sherlock.

“O… kay?” he says, because Mycroft seems to expect an answer.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and heaves a sigh, and it suddenly clears up everything. And makes John wish he could vanish under the table.

_What he means is, if you hurt me he’ll exact revenge on my behalf, and nevermind that I don’t need or want him to do a damn thing for me._

“Right,” John says faintly, looking at Sherlock because that’s far easier than meeting Mycroft’s eyes and wondering if he knows they spent the last night in the same bed. “I mean, of course I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You don’t intend to right now,” Mycroft says, pleasantly enough. “But matters of sentiment are rarely as simple as simple intentions. Besides, it’s Sherlock we’re talking about. He’d tempt the patience of a saint.”

Which is an odd thing to say right after Mycroft basically offered the ‘this is my baby brother so you better watch yourself’ speech. To date, John had only ever heard the ‘baby sister’ version, but it’s still familiar.

“I’m not going to hurt him,” he repeats firmly.

He’s never hurt anyone. He’s not going to start with Sherlock.

“Jolly well,” Mycroft says, standing from the table and holding his hand out to John. “Glad we understand each other. Merry Christmas, boys.”

Feeling absolutely confused, John shakes his hand. And frowns when he feels something being pressed into his palm. Mycroft leaves the dining room without another word, and John is left to stare at the strip of condoms in his hand. Swallowing hard, his cheeks burning, he looks up and meets Sherlock’s eyes.

“The cub is a prat,” he says, huffing.

It translates as, “Mycroft should mind his own business,” but somehow ‘prat’ seems like a rather accurate description to John.

*

The rest of the evening is remarkably un-holiday-like. There isn’t much happening on the boyfriends front either. Sherlock is back to his experiments, and John has learned it’s useless to try to distract him. Earlier this week, he reduced sixty-two cigarettes from various brands to ashes. John has no idea where he got them, and no idea what the point of looking at each sample of ash under the microscope is, but that’s Sherlock in a nutshell: a cipher both in his actions and his words. If it bothered John, he wouldn’t be here for the holidays – wouldn’t be sitting on Sherlock’s bed with his back to the wall and a book in his lap.

The strip of condoms is in his room, hidden at the bottom of his suitcase. It’s stupid because Sherlock saw it, but John can’t even bear to picture the foil packages right now, let alone what they contain. He and Sherlock aren’t there yet… Are they?

The thought keeps intruding as he reads, and more than once he realizes he’s been turning the pages without taking in a word.

As midnight approaches, he finds himself yawning more and more often.

“I’m off to bed,” he says finally, closing his book and standing.

Sherlock’s face is practically glued to the microscope; a goodnight kiss seems unlikely, John thinks, amused despite himself.

“Golden hair is darker when wet,” Sherlock says absently.

John’s heart stutters.

_Go ahead, I’ll join you when I’m finished._

Does that mean…

John can’t even think anymore. Can’t move. It’s a miracle he’s still breathing.

Sherlock doesn’t even look at him but he seems to know what effect his words just had. “Clasped pillows?” 

_You are sleeping in my bed again, right? I sleep a lot better with you there, so you should._

And again, how could John say no to that?

“All right. I mean, sure.”

If his face was any warmer, surely he’d burst into flames. He leaves the room to get ready.

It’s weird, he thinks as he looks at his reflection while brushing his teeth. He’s older by almost a year and half, and he has some experience with relationships while Sherlock doesn’t – or at least, not as far as John knows. And still, Sherlock’s the one making all the first steps while John’s the one feeling all jittery and out of his depth – and it’s got nothing to do with the fact that Sherlock is a guy. Come to think of it, John would have thought he’d be more freaked about that part. But all things considered, it doesn’t seem all that important.

When he returns to Sherlock’s room in nothing but an old t-shirt and the pair of long boxers he uses as pajamas, he’s feeling self-conscious, his nerves raw, and it doesn’t seem to matter that this is what he wears to sleep at school and Sherlock has seen him in it dozens of times. Not that Sherlock is paying him any mind, scribbling notes on his spreadsheets.

John gets in bed, and as he draws the covers over himself, he’s certain he’s too keyed up to find sleep now.

He doesn’t even realize he’s drifting off, and only half wakes up when Sherlock finally joins him. And then, John gets his goodnight kiss.

More than one.

They’re sweet, lazy kisses accompanied with fingers tangling in hair, stroking cheeks or clenching on shoulders. Warmth spreads through John; contentment. They could push it to the next level, but why when this is so nice as it is?

When their mouths fall apart for the last time, it’s with twin sighs, and Sherlock’s draws a quiet chuckle from John.

_What did you get me for Christmas?_

“Don’t you know?” he asks, grinning. His fingers keep carding through Sherlock’s hair with a mind of their own. “I’ve been so sure you’d know, I wasn't even sure I should bother wrapping it.”

As close as they are, physically of course but also, especially, emotionally, John doesn’t even hear the words Sherlock uses anymore, only what he wants to say.

_I don’t know everything, you know. It’s not how it works._

But John doesn’t know that, because Sherlock doesn’t like to talk about how the whole Prophet gig works from his side of things.

“It’s nice that you can be surprised,” he murmurs. And then, he has to ask, “Did you know about us? I mean, when we met? Could you tell we’d be sleeping in the same bed before the year was over?”

The answer takes so long to come that John starts to think Sherlock fell asleep.

 _First time we met, I knew your face. I’d seen you before._ A pause, and then, even more quietly now, _You’ll be there when I die. I always knew you’d be there, I just didn’t know who you were._

John has been sucker-punched before. It feels exactly like this. A cold shiver runs through him when just a moment ago he felt so warm. Sherlock draws him closer and John clings to him with both hands.

 _Don’t get upset,_ Sherlock whispers. _Please. I can’t help what I know. Can we be here now?_

John’s eyes are stinging, so he shuts them tightly.

“Sure. Now is good. Now is great.”

It’s a long, long time before John falls asleep again.

*

John’s present to Sherlock is a scarf. Long, thick, blue, the warmest scarf he could find because Sherlock never seems to realize he’s shivering in cold when he walks outside with his throat open to the elements.

Sherlock’s present to John is a laptop.

“I can’t accept that!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at him and explains. It’s not new. It was Sherlock’s, but he hasn’t used it in a long time, so someone might as well have it. Also, he likes the idea of John having something of his.

And John can’t not accept.

What he only discovers later is that Sherlock wants him to use the laptop to set up a blog. He’d have done it himself, but the words he types are as mangled as the ones that come out of his mouth – hence why he hasn’t been using the computer.

It becomes a project over the next few days. Sherlock’s incomprehensible spreadsheets and experiments become articles on his brand new blog. Why he wants people on the internet to know about all the different types of ashes he identified (so far), John has no idea, but he likes being part of Sherlock’s experiments at last, if only after the fact. He types what Sherlock asks him to, and get thanked with kisses. The blog is titled, The Science of Deduction.

After they first set it up, it takes them two days to realize John typed, The Science of Seduction. John blames the typo on the fact that Sherlock’s hands are always on him when he types, stroking his shoulders, his neck, his back, his hair. Sherlock’s look of confusion makes it clear he hadn’t even noticed he was doing it; for some reason, it makes John happy.

*

They sleep in the same bed every night, now. Just sleep.

Well, sleep and some drawn-out making out sessions.

And for all that they sleep together, their hands have yet to drift anywhere lower than their chests. John likes to rest his hand there, over Sherlock’s heart, and feel it beat faster as they kiss.

Some mornings can be a little awkward.

Every morning, really.

It doesn’t help that, now and then, as John excuses himself for a morning shower, Sherlock says something like, “Enjoy” or “Think of me”. As if John needed the reminder. He’s pretty sure Sherlock just likes watching him blush. But if it makes him smile, John can live with the teasing.

*

The weekend before they’re due back at the Academy, John finds himself one afternoon in Mycroft’s office, seated across the desk from him, a tea cup in his hands. Sherlock is busy with some feather he found and absolutely wants to identify before they leave the estate. John keeps glancing back at the closed door. He’s rather apprehensive about the kind of warning he’s going to get today. More 'I can make you miserable'?

“Do you know Sherlock’s birthday is on January Tenth?” Mycroft asks after taking a sip from his cup.

January Tenth… less than a week, and John has no present for him. Damn.

“No, I didn’t know,” he says, fiddling with his cup. The porcelain is fine; it looks ancient. “Thanks for telling me, I’ll—”

“You will do absolutely nothing about it,” Mycroft cuts in smoothly. “You are not, under any circumstances, to get him a present, or a cake, cupcake, biscuit, anything with a candle on it or in any way festive. No song. No best wishes. It would in fact be best if you pretended you don’t know it’s his birthday.”

It makes no sense, and John isn’t shy in saying so. “Why would you tell me it’s his birthday and then ask me to pretend I don’t know?”

“Because it’s not just his birthday.” Mycroft raises the tea cup to his lips, but he never takes a sip and sets the cup down on his desk instead. “It’s also the anniversary of our parents’ accident,” he says in a voice stripped of emotions. “As you can imagine, the day is not a joyous one.”

“But I thought—” stumbles from John’s lips before he can stop himself, before he can remind himself that they were Mycroft’s parents too and John should at least say he’s sorry. Or something. 

“What did you think?” Mycroft asks, picking up his tea again.

John should drop it. He really should. But somehow, he hears himself ask, “Why did the Christmas tree stay up all the way into January?”

The briefest frown is all the reaction Mycroft offers. He doesn’t even ask how John knows.

“They used to put Sherlock’s birthday present under the tree,” he says in between sips. “Our mother coddled him rather a lot, when she forgot to be ashamed.”

John stares at the tea in his cup. He feels like he might be sick soon.

“Maybe…” He clears his throat. “I think maybe he needs better birthday memories to replace those.”

Mycroft’s stare is as flat, as cold as his voice. “You think so, don’t you? You’ve known him for almost a full year and he’s shown you some affection, so of course that makes you an expert on what my brother needs. Let me enlighten you, then, John. One of your predecessor also believed she knew him and what he needed. I warned her the same way I warned you, although maybe not with so many details. She disregarded my words. She bought him a cake. Brought it to him in the school cafeteria, singing that obnoxious song and coaxing their peers into singing along. Do you want to know what he did, John?”

It’s all John can do to stop himself from shaking his head no. He doubts it’d stop Mycroft.

“He said one word to her. Just one, little word. And she fainted. Would you like to know why she fainted?”

John doesn’t want to know that either but he doesn’t have a choice, does he?

“This young lady was very brilliant. One of the traits she was most proud of was her perfect memory. That was how she got the job of interpreter. The Minister of the Future thought it’d be a good thing for her to recall everything my brother said. But with that one word, as I understand it, he told her about her entire life. He told her whom she’d date. Who would break her heart. Whom she’d marry. When she’d divorce. He told her about her two children, and how one of them would get brain damage from a car accident when he was four years old. He told her when her parents and her friends would die. He told her every painful thing life had in store for her until the day of her death. All the things she will try, and probably fail to change. All with one small word.”

A pause, then, and John knows it’s not over. He braces himself for the rest of it.

“And after saying that one word, he went ahead and… indulged, shall we say. To my knowledge, he has indulged at least six times on that particular day over the last nine years. And while he never said so out right, I suspect this might be the day he'll die. So you will heed my advice, John, and you will not wish him a happy birthday. But you will keep a close eye on him. We should still have a year, but Prophets have been wrong before.”

John nods, unable to say a word. His hand shakes so much that he almost drops the cup before managing to set it down on the desk.

Leaving Mycroft’s office, he goes straight to Sherlock’s room. Comes in behind him at his desk, and presses his face to Sherlock’s neck, wrapping his arms around him.

“Snowfalls?” Sherlock asks absently.

_Something wrong?_

John’s throat feels tight, but he pushes the words out anyway. “No, nothing wrong. I just missed you.”

Sherlock’s left hand covers his for a little while as he scribbles some notes. John tries to relearn how to breathe.


	5. Anything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter sounded a lot better in my head. :|  
> Thank you all for the kudos and comments, much appreciated. <3  
> Also flyingrotten on tumblr made a gorgeous drawing for the pond scene from chapter 2. [Check it out](http://prettyvk.tumblr.com/post/62421477401/flyingrotten-for-the-cute-prettyvk-i-really).

Mycroft’s warning leaves John in a state of near-constant paranoia, and even back in school he can hardly think of anything else. Four days left until the tenth. John’s heart starts to beat faster just thinking about it.

As much as he wants to believe Sherlock is clean and doesn’t have anything else hidden away, it’s hard to forget what Mycroft said. If Sherlock could put his hands on drugs when he was little more than a kid, what chances do they have of stopping him now? At the same time, though, he can’t have been ‘indulging’, like Mycroft called it, all that often, can he? There’d be lasting physical evidence of that. Unless Sherlock’s sleeping and eating habits are the evidence John is looking for? John doesn’t know enough about addiction to figure it out. But if Sherlock’s drug use is only intermittent, then how does he control himself – and how does he lose control? Being upset is part of it, but upset how? Upset why? Sad? Or lonely? Or annoyed? Or—

“Why are the blinds flapping in the wind? That stone will never fly.”

John’s head snaps up. He’s so startled that he fumbles the book and notebook perched on his lap, and they both fall to the floor. As he leans down to pick them up, he glances up at Sherlock. Seated on the edge of the scene in the auditorium, he continues to fiddle with the strings of his violin like he didn’t say a word – like he didn’t speak to John for the first time today.

_What are you thinking about so hard? Not your essay that’s for sure._

Lying is useless, so John doesn’t even try.

“You,” he says with a shrug. “Wondering why you keep messing with those strings instead of playing.”

In reply, Sherlock pinches one string between two fingers. The note fills the room, as clear as crystal.

“Cascades,” Sherlock mutters.

 _Liar_.

“You’ve been tuning that violin for two hours,” John insists. “And it sounded just fine before, too. Why don’t you play?”

Sherlock’s eyes rise from the instrument and find John’s, pinning him in place. John can’t remember the last time Sherlock looked at him like this, his gaze cold enough to start a new ice age. Shivering, he can only wonder what he’s done to deserve this look.

“Why did the cub dance?” Sherlock hisses, his voice rising with each word. “Why did he dance and burn the feathers?”

_What did Mycroft say to you? What could he possibly have said to make you change your mind about sleeping in my bed?_

John’s first thought is, ‘oh, is that why he’s mad at me?’ followed closely by, ‘how does he know I talked to Mycroft?’ but the most important part of it all is ‘fix this and fix it _now_.’

“We can’t…” Standing, he looks to the back of the auditorium, checking that they’re alone. Just the same, he gets closer to Sherlock and drops his voice. “We can’t sleep in the same bed at school,” he whispers, resting a hand on top of Sherlock’s on the violin. “People would talk and get us in trouble with the Headmaster. Besides, the beds here are tiny. One of us would end up on the floor.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow and he pulls his hand free as he huffs. Such a small sound, and yet such venom behind it.

_As long as we bring that idiot Messages, he’ll let us get away with anything and you know it. So that’s not what you’re worried about. Are you so ashamed of being with me? What is it, I don’t measure up to your usual conquests? Or maybe I’m not the right gender? Afraid to be called names? The same names they called your sister? Is it nice and comfy in that closet, John?_

Blinking in surprise, John takes in a deep breath and tries to push the hurt away. Sherlock’s upset, and it was a bad time to get him upset. That he’s trying to lash out like this is certainly better than if he was hurting himself instead.

“No, I’m not afraid to be called names,” John says as calmly as he can manage. With a gentle hand, he tugs the violin out of Sherlock’s grip and sets it aside. “I’m not ashamed of being with you either. You’re the only bloke I ever fancied but I have no issues with that.” Stepping right in between Sherlock’s legs, he reaches up to cup his face in between both his hands. “If you really want to know, I was worried they’d start calling _you_ names again. They haven’t been as bad since the school year started again, I didn’t want to be the reason for you to be the school’s black sheep again.”

From this close, there’s no way he could miss the sliver of doubt in Sherlock’s eyes, and then the relief, warm and unadulterated. He waits for Sherlock’s lips to twitch in the beginning of a smile, then pulls gently. Sherlock’s mouth comes down to his easily. Two days since their last kiss at the manor. Much too long. They make it a good one.

*

When night comes and they get in bed – each in their own bed – Sherlock heaves a long sigh.

_It’s not that tiny. Plenty of room for you. And I don’t care what they say._

John disguises a laugh into a cough. “Goodnight, Sherlock,” he murmurs.

A huff means _Idiot_ , but somehow it sounds different from all the times when Sherlock has called other people idiots. How affection can transpire through a loud breath, John has no idea, but he still falls asleep with a smile.

He wakes up again half an hour later, and starts worrying about January tenth again.

*

Two more days trickle by. Sherlock’s mood is starting to take a turn for the worst. John tries to cheer him up however he can, but he can practically feel the tension emanating from Sherlock, like a violin string being pulled tighter and tighter; the question isn’t whether it’s going to snap, but when, and how badly.

They’re back in the auditorium, and John has given up trying to do his homework. Instead, he stares, enthralled, as Sherlock plays, eyes shut as always, the bow flying over the strings. The melody is fast, faster than anything John has ever heard Sherlock play, and each note seems layered with half a dozen more. It’s a whirlwind of sounds and emotions and John is caught in the middle of it, unable to quite catch his breath, his heart pounding to the music’s fast rhythm. At times, the haunting melody makes him want to wrap his arms around Sherlock, rock him and never let go again; at times, he wants to kiss him senseless. Do a lot more than kiss him, too. But that’d mean stopping the music, and that’s the last thing John wants.

And still, it does stop at some point. It always has to stop. And as always, Sherlock’s eyes open and search John. He doesn’t smile when their gazes meet, but there’s fire in that look. Affection, need… more? John is on his feet and walking closer before he knows it, licking his lips as he watches Sherlock’s mouth.

“That was beautiful!”

The words are jarring, unneeded after the beauty that filled the room. Sherlock blinks, his gaze refocusing on something behind John, and John turns to watch Molly approach, a beaming smile on her face and a friend in tow.

“Hello Sherlock! Hi John.”

John forces himself to offer a polite word of greeting, although what he wants to say is more along the lines of ‘go away’.

“This is Lena,” Molly babbles after enthusing a little more about the music. “I told her about you. I mean, about what you told me. You know, about my parents.”

John manages not to wince, but he can see those last words sinking under Sherlock’s skin like barbs. All the fire is gone from his eyes. They slide from Molly to her friend and he stares in that way of his, the one that sees every last thing anyone ever wants to hide.

“So Lena was wondering…” Molly must sense she’s treading on cracking ice because her voice grows quieter even as the words come out faster. “Would you maybe tell her if she’s like me or if she’ll really do something extraordinary? If that’s okay, I mean. We don’t want you to do anything you don’t feel like doing. Of course.”

She turns beet red, and John wants to roll his eyes at her. He likes her, he really does, but how she thinks she can force Sherlock to say anything when he barely opens his mouth for the Minister of the Future—

“Helena Irene McDonnel,” Sherlock says, the words crisp and clearly enunciated – and so full of meaning that John reels back for a second as he takes it all in.

“That’s my name,” Molly’s friend says in a slightly stunned voice. “I never use my middle name, though. How did you know?”

Still trying to wrap his mind around the deluge of information Sherlock put into those three words, John takes a good look at the girl. She’s older than Molly; maybe John’s age. Most of the girls at school look like schoolgirls playing at being women; she looks like a woman playing dress up in a school uniform. Her eyes, especially, make her appear older as she returns Sherlock’s stare with one of her own.

“John?” she says without taking her gaze off Sherlock. Her surprise has abated and she sounds perfectly calm now. “I know every word a Prophet says means something. What does my name mean when he says it?”

For no reason John can figure out, he’s taken by the sudden desire to stand between her and Sherlock and snarl ‘he’s mine’. The impulse startles him; he’s never thought of Sherlock as his until now. If anything, he is Sherlock’s. He just really doesn’t like the way she looks at Sherlock… or the way Sherlock looks at her, for that matter.

“John?” she says again, now sounding impatient.

Sherlock blinks and turns to John, one eyebrow rising questioningly.

“Yes,” John says, his throat dry and scratchy. “You’ve got…” A fate, he wants to say, but that sounds stupid. “You’ll do something important.”

“Something important?” she repeats. “Is that all?”

He could tell her a lot more than that, but he finds he doesn’t want to. Besides, why would she need to know what she’ll do? For that matter, how did her particular brand of ‘important’ get her into the Academy? John would have guessed the country would be better off sending her to jail – preemptively.

“That’s all,” he says firmly, and hopes she doesn’t notice Sherlock’s flicker of a smile as he turns away to put his violin back in its case.

“That’s… disappointing,” Lena says with a small frown. “The other Prophet gave me more details than that. Are you sure there isn’t more?”

“The other Prophet?”

It’s Molly who asks, but John hears the question echoed in Sherlock hissing breath. It bears repeating.

“What other Prophet?” John asks. “I thought you didn’t know for sure and wanted Sherlock to tell you…”

He trails off at her dismissive gesture.

“Knowledge is power,” she says. “The more I know about my future, the better. Now tell me everything he said.”

John crosses his arms and keeps his mouth shut. Molly moves away from Lena, her eyes wide and wounded. “Did you… you lied to me. I thought we were friends. I thought…”

Clearly, she thought wrong.

Molly has dinner with them, that evening. She keeps apologizing until Sherlock, with a roll of his eyes, mutters, “The woman.”

“You’re not the first person she fooled,” John dutifully interprets, then adds, thinking of everything he heard Sherlock say, “and you definitely won’t be the last.”

It soothes her a little. Strangely enough, the whole thing seems to have tempered Sherlock’s mood; or maybe it just distracted him. It’s good. Very good. John tries not to grit his teeth.

On their way back to the dorm, John can’t help but ask the question that has been annoying him since the auditorium.

“You never give people Messages. Why her?”

Sherlock shrugs and replies absently. “Troubled skies… sing brighter.”

_Most people are dull. She was… interesting._

A flash of something hot and shameful runs through John. It’s not jealousy, he tells himself forcefully. He has no reason to be jealous. No reason whatsoever.

“Singing louder as well,” Sherlock murmurs, brushing his shoulder to John’s.

_Not as interesting as you._

Another flash of heat, and this one is nothing at all like jealousy. That night, for a long time, he thinks about joining Sherlock in his bed. He falls asleep before daring to.

*

Saturday rolls around. 

Sherlock’s seventeenth birthday.

There’s a chunk of ice in John’s stomach when he finally shakes off indistinct dreams and wakes up. It’s still early, so he stays in bed, his face turned toward Sherlock. The curtains around his bed are drawn, and all John can see is a vague shape. He seems to be asleep. Asleep is good. Sherlock sleeps too little as it is, and…

A quiet sound, not quite a whimper but close, and John stands without thinking.

Asleep is good, unless you’re trapped in unhappy memories turned into nightmares.

Slipping past the curtain and climbing in Sherlock’s bed is the easiest thing he’s ever done. He doesn’t give a thought to what anyone might think. He only knows one thing: Sherlock hurts. And that’s not acceptable. Not today. Not ever.

He slides both arms around him and draws him close, his head tucked in under John’s chin, their legs tangled. Sherlock’s hands find their way to John’s back and he clings to his t-shirt, hands fisted in the fabric so tightly that it pulls and threatens to rip. John holds him closer still, close enough that he can feel his heart thumping too fast, too loud.

Neither of them says anything, but little by little, Sherlock’s heart slows down, his sleep now undisturbed. John runs a soothing hand down his back and closes his eyes.

*

John drifts, half asleep but still aware of the comings and goings in the dorm. He hears snickers and rude comments, but remains quiet. He doesn’t want to wake Sherlock. The more sleep he gets, the better.

Some time around noon, Anderson comes back in and remarks loudly to himself that he knew John was queer from the moment he punched him to protect ‘the poor little Prophet’s honor.’ John clenches his teeth to stop himself from telling him to shut his mouth… and bursts out laughing when Sherlock mutters with a yawn, “French croissants never burn. Purple’s a nice sound.”

“What was that?” Anderson asks, immediately defensive. He’s standing on the other side of the curtains, his fists clearly balled on either side of him. “What did he say?”

“He said at least neither of us risks getting pregnant and being sent away to another Academy. Heard from Donovan, lately? She should have that baby boy pretty soon.”

When Anderson lets out a quiet gasp, John wonders if he knew it’s a boy, or even knew Sally kept it. John certainly didn’t, not until now – not that he ever wondered. Anderson leaves without another word.

“And here I was, living under the delusion that I needed to protect you,” John whispers against Sherlock’s mussed hair, “when in fact you can dish out much more effectively than I do.”

Sherlock shakes his head, rubbing his cheek against John’s collarbone. When he speaks again, John barely hears his words and takes in their meaning as though Sherlock were speaking right to his soul.

_Dealing with idiots is easy. Dealing with other things… not as easy._

John wishes he knew what to reply. Should he hint that he knows what today is? Or should he heed Mycroft’s warning and feign ignorance? Sherlock gives him his answer.

_He told you, didn’t he? I told him to mind his own business but he never does. He’s such a prat._

John’s fingers drift to the back of Sherlock’s head and tangle in the curly locks there.

“He’s a prat, yes. But he’s also your brother. He cares about you. He worries. You can huff all you want, you know it’s true.”

When Sherlock doesn’t reply, it’s as good as an admission.

“Ready to get out of bed?” John asks after a little while. “The cafeteria’s going to close soon. We should go down for lunch.”

 _I’m not hungry,_ Sherlock says, pulling away from John and lying onto his back right on the edge of the bed. _You go, I’ll stay here._

John doesn’t hesitate. He rolls up onto his stomach, throwing an arm over Sherlock and drawing him closer again.

“Not happening,” he says, his lips brushing against Sherlock’s arm, half on his t-shirt, half on soft, warm skin. “You’re not getting rid of me. Not today.”

He watches Sherlock’s eyes close and wonders if he imagined that extra bit of wet gleaming.

_Don’t be an idiot. I can hear your stomach grumbling. It’s annoying._

“Tough luck. If you’re not coming with me, I’m not going anywhere.” John falters, then adds very quietly, “I’m pretty sure you know why, too. So if you want to stay here all day, that’s fine by me. If you want to go out for a walk, also fine. If you want to play your violin, I’ll get it for you. If you want to talk, I’ll listen. Whatever it is you want, Sherlock, you can have it. Anything but your usual way of dealing with today.”

Sherlock’s body shakes once, and John isn’t sure if it’s from a quiet laugh or a silent sob.

 _Would you like to know what I want?_ Sherlock asks after a moment. _What I really want? I want to stop feeling like… Just stop feeling. Mycroft can do it. He can just turn it off and see everything like it doesn’t touch him. Like it’s outside of him. When… I’ve tried, you have no idea how hard I tried. The drugs help but it never lasts. Because every time I look at someone and see what the future has in store for them, I don’t just see it. I feel it too. I feel how happy they’ll be when they cure that disease, or how hurt when they lose someone they love, or… or… when they die. I feel that too. That explosion, last fall? I could feel the pain of everyone caught in it. And I can’t stop it. They want me to read the future everywhere I look but every time it’s like skinning myself alive._

John’s breath hitches in his throat and he can do little more than watch Sherlock as his words press into his consciousness. His arm tightens just a little more and he tries to find words, any words; all he can come up with is, “I didn’t know. I never imagined… I thought you could choose whether to see the future or not, I didn’t know…”

He falls silent again when it dawns on him. ‘I feel it when they die’, Sherlock said. What did he feel, ten years ago today? John’s stomach twists until it hurts.

 _Yes and no,_ Sherlock says, his voice the tiniest bit calmer. _Some things, I just know whether I want to or not. Like I know a tiny meteorite will strike the space station in four days. I could draw it for you if I had any talent for drawing. It’s mostly iron, I think. It glitters as it smashes through a solar panel and keeps going. It’s sort of pretty in a way. Other things I have to look for. Like… with that woman. Or Molly. I have to look inside them… no, not inside them, that’s not right, I don’t know how to explain it but—_

John has heard enough. There was a time when he’d have given anything for Sherlock to explain this, but right now all he can hear is the agitation growing inside him again. Propping himself up on a forearm, he leans over and presses his mouth to Sherlock’s, stopping him mid-word. For a second on two, Sherlock is tense against him, not reciprocating the kiss but not fighting it either. Then he relaxes, lets John in, and it’s the sweetest, gentlest kiss they’ve ever shared. It’s comfort made into touch, and when John pulls back Sherlock’s eyes are open and brighter than the sky.

 _Maybe feeling isn’t so bad after all,_ Sherlock murmurs.

John hides a smile against his shoulder.

They’re both quiet for a long time. Somehow, Sherlock’s fingers found their way into John’s hair and are carding through it, the movement repetitive and hopefully as soothing to Sherlock as it is to John.

“We should tell the Headmaster,” John mumbles at some point. “About the space station, I mean.”

Sherlock sighs.

_What for? It’s not like they can stop a meteorite from hurtling through space. This is one of those cases when no one can do anything._

There’s such finality in that thought, such resignation that John can’t help but wonder what other prediction Sherlock is thinking about. His parents’ deaths, or his own?

“Well, they can try,” John says more gruffly than he meant to. “Maybe they can move the station. Or at least get the astronauts ready for it so they’re safe. Sometimes your predictions change things for the best.”

Sherlock’s fingers pause mid-stroke. When he speaks, his voice is… not cold, exactly, but void of anything. If John was asked to guess what Sherlock feels right now, he’d have no idea.

_They thought I was having a tantrum. They always thought I was having tantrums. Usually Prophets can speak their own words until they start making predictions, but not me. I always spoke nonsense. They hated it. I was just a kid but I could tell they hated it. And I was so mad at them for not understanding. Mycroft could understand, so why not them? I didn’t know about interpreters yet. When I told Mycroft that day… They thought I was upset because they were going to a party on my birthday. Mycroft tried so hard to make them understand… They scolded both of us and left anyway. Mycroft said… he said Prophets are wrong, sometimes. But I knew I wasn’t wrong, and I think he knew it too. And all we could do was wait for the police to come tell us what we already knew._

If there’s an appropriate answer for this, something that would make Sherlock feel better or at least hurt a little less, John has no idea what it is. All he can do is try for another kiss, except that this time Sherlock turns his head away and John’s mouth brushes against his cheek instead of his mouth. John lies down again and tries to think of something to say. His mind is utterly blank.

 _Will you do something for me?_ Sherlock asks after another eternity has trickled by them.

“Anything.”

_After… will you please tell Mycroft it wasn’t his fault? He couldn’t do anything to stop it._

This time, John knows exactly whose death they’re talking about.

“Sure,” he says, and the word comes out a little strangled. “But it’d mean more to him if you talked to him. Or if it didn’t happen at all.”

 _But it will happen,_ Sherlock chides. _There’s nothing you can do either. Except be there. Help me not be scared. Will you do that for me?_

“Anything,” John says again, but what he really means is, ‘I’ll do anything to stop it from happening at all.’

Prophets are wrong, sometimes. Predicted events can be altered. John will do anything.


	6. One Word

“Do you know when it’ll happen?”

They’ve both been quiet for close to an hour and Sherlock’s eyes are closed, but John knows he’s not asleep. He’s been next to a sleeping Sherlock, felt his body go loose in rest, watched his face soften. Sherlock is not asleep, no; he’s a giant, tangled ball of raw nerves pretending for John’s sake to be a skein of brushed cashmere. And John is not fooled at all.

_The space station thing? I told you. Four days._

“No, not the space station thing.”

Sherlock’s next answer comes as a long-suffering sigh.

_What does it matter? It’ll happen when it happens._

John is pushing his luck, he knows that, but he’d rather do it now, when he doesn’t intend to leave Sherlock’s side, than risk raising the topic again another day.

“It matters to me,” he says quietly. “I’ve never asked you to predict anything and I’m not going to do it about anything else. But I really would like you to tell me as much about this one prediction as you can.”

Sherlock is quiet for so long that John starts to believe he won’t get an answer. He tries to put an explanation together in his head, careful words about why he wants, needs to know. He’ll plead or beg if necessary.

But he ends up not needing to.

_I don’t really know more than I already told you,_ Sherlock says in his most dispassionate voice. _It’ll happen when I’m eighteen, but for all I know it could be on my eighteenth birthday or the day before my nineteenth, or any other day in between. I know you’ll be there, and I’m glad for that because I wouldn’t want to be alone. I’m sorry if it’s selfish but it’s true._

John’s hand tightens reflexively over Sherlock’s t-shirt and he pushes past the tightness in his throat.

“It’s not selfish. No one wants to be alone when… when… for that.”

_I wish it didn’t have to hurt you,_ Sherlock continues after a pause. He’s more hesitant now, and even opens his eyes to look at John. _But I suppose if you didn’t care enough to hurt, you wouldn’t be there._

John would like to say something, anything, but the only thing running through his mind is ‘I love you’ and he doesn’t want to say it now, not when they’re talking about Sherlock’s death. It’d feel like a cheap trick to say it now. So instead of words, he tries to offer a smile. It feels small and crooked, and even Sherlock’s thumb stroking along it doesn’t help straighten it up.

_I don’t know where,_ Sherlock adds, his voice cool again. _A bedroom, I think, but not at the manor. Not here either. Daytime. Heroin. That’s all I know._

John gives a small nod and manages to get a grip on himself. This is not much to work with.

“Have you ever tried to… I don’t know. Can you try to… look deeper? Find out more details?”

Another deep sigh, but this one is gentler than the last. 

_I could. But I won’t. Please don’t ask me to. I don’t want to know more._

‘But I do,’ John wants to say. ‘I want to know everything. That’s the only way I can stop it from happening.’

It wouldn’t help, though. Sherlock already made it clear he doesn’t think his predictions can make a difference. He’d be upset if John said he wants to try. And for that matter… Would he even want John to try to stop it?

The words tumble out before he can stop them.

“Sherlock? Do you want to die?”

Rolling onto his side and closer to John, Sherlock almost – just almost – smiles.

_Not right now,_ he murmurs, and presses his mouth to John’s.

John kisses him slowly and holds him as tightly as he dares. That answer is not good enough. It’s so far from good enough it’s painful, and he wishes he could put that in his kiss, in his fingers, in his eyes, let Sherlock know…

But Sherlock knows, doesn’t he? He needs someone to interpret his words for the rest of the world, but he is better than an interpreter when it comes to divining the meaning of a look, a brush of fingertips, the tone of a voice. He knows why John asked for details, of course. He knows how John feels. And maybe because he knows, it’s suddenly easier to say it. Breaking the kiss, John rests his forehead against Sherlock’s and breathes out the words he doesn’t need to hide.

“I love you.”

This time, Sherlock does smile.

*

Sherlock may take it as a personal affront of the universe against him, but in the end, he is human – and he has a bladder. For which John is very, very grateful, as his own has been full for too long. Getting out of bed is nice, especially since two of their dorm mates came in and are working on their homework or reading on their respective beds – and doing a very poor job of pretending they’re not going to gossip about everything they see or hear.

With a bit of prodding and pushing, John even convinces Sherlock to get out. It’s a cold day, but sunny. They walk on the grounds, go to the tree where they spent the warmest days of fall. Sherlock, it turns out, climbs trees with as much agility and disregard for risk as a cat. He helps John join him up on a thick limb, and proceeds to tell him a story about how, when he was a small child, he stole Mycroft’s birthday cake and climbed up a tree to eat it, with Mycroft shouting at him from the ground the entire time. John laughs so hard he almost falls. Sherlock grabs him, quick as lightning, and helps him regain his balance. John thanks him with a kiss that turns into two, then three. Suddenly, it doesn’t feel so chilly anymore.

They lose track of time, and sunset surprises them. They’re not supposed to be out so late, but then this is one of those times when being with a Prophet is marvelously handy. Sherlock gets them back in unnoticed. And proceeds to lead the way into the kitchen, producing a small brass key to gain access. John is amused but says nothing.

Dinner ended a while ago. The kitchen is empty, gleaming, ready for the next meal. Sherlock walks through the room and to the oversized fridge as though he’s done this many times before.

Which, John realizes with a small shock, he must have.

“So, the mystery of why Sherlock isn’t starving is finally solved,” John says with a quiet laugh. “Midnight raids on the kitchen. I can’t believe you!”

Sherlock shrugs, but there’s a crinkle at the corner of his eyes that’s as good as a smile.

Cold sandwiches and deliciously warm tea isn’t the best dinner John can think of, but after a full day with no food, it’ll be more than adequate. Or it would be if Sherlock seemed interested in more than a cup of tea.

Before taking a bite of food, John sets the sandwich down again.

“If you’re not eating, I’m not eating,” he says simply.

Sherlock throws him an eyeroll.

“Don’t let the rain catch butterflies.”

_You’re hungry. Don’t be stupid._

“If you’re not eating,” John repeats, “I’m not eating either. And I don’t just mean now. Every day. Mealtimes. And by eating I do mean more than a couple bites.”

Sherlock snorts.

_If you think you can blackmail me, think again. You’ll cave in before I do._

The sandwich smells oh, so good, and John’s stomach grumbles oh, so loudly, but he doesn’t yield. He’s not going to. He crosses his arms, determined to be the most stubborn one, this time.

“You said you wished I didn’t have to get hurt,” he says. “Well, this hurts me. Seeing you starve yourself? It does hurt me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s mouth opens, and John can practically the denial before it’s uttered. Of course Sherlock isn’t starving himself. He’s just not hungry, that’s all. He’s never hungry.

If Sherlock said as much, John knows it’d be a lie. But he doesn’t say it. Instead, he prepares a second sandwich. Smaller than the one he made for John, but it’ll be good enough. He makes a face as he takes his first bite, but John notices that, by the third, he stops looking like this is undignified and beneath him.

He finishes the whole thing. Granted, John has time to prepare and eat a second sandwich while Sherlock finishes his own but small steps are good.

Small steps are even better when they take place on the day John had been warned could turn out so very ugly.

They’re finishing their tea when the door opens and one of the cooks steps in. He frowns when he sees John, but immediately relaxes when he notices Sherlock next to him.

“Sherlock!” he says with a broad smile. “Always a pleasure to see you. Although it’s been quite a while, heh? And who is your friend, then?”

“John Watson,” John says with a quick look at Sherlock. “I’m his interpreter.”

Sherlock’s lips are pinched and he’s staring at the cook very intently, shaking his head minutely. That’s… rather odd. And even more so when he catches John watching him and immediately looks into his empty tea cup.

“You’re a friend of Sherlock’s, then?” John asks, curious.

The cook gives a small smile. “Friend, sure. I’m not good enough to be an interpreter like you, but I understand bits and pieces. Sherlock here got me out of a tricky situation, once. So I… help him when he needs—”

“The masks have fallen short,” Sherlock says abruptly, his cup clanking on the counter.

_We’re done here. Let’s go._

The cook tilts his head, his brow furrowed as he looks at John. “Like I said, I don’t always understand. Did he say how much—”

“Masks.”

_Let’s go, John._

Sherlock’s hand closes on John’s wrist and he pulls him out of the kitchen under the cook’s confused frown.

John is just as confused, but not for much longer. When he understands, he freezes midstep. Sherlock’s hand, still gripping his wrist, tries to tug him forward, but he resists, freeing himself and remaining still in the middle of the hallway until Sherlock looks back and meets his eyes.

“It’s not food you get from him,” he says as calmly as he can manage.

Sherlock looks away, which is an admission in itself.

“Rocks have rolled all the way to the sea,” he mutters.

_I haven’t gotten anything from him in months._

“But you used to, didn’t you?” John insists. It’s been a long time since he wanted so badly to shout, and it’s all he can do not to. “He’s your dealer.”

Little by little, Sherlock straightens his back, standing of all his height and stepping a little closer so that he’s practically staring down at John when he hisses, “Slides and shoots. They disappear in clouds.”

_Was. I’m clean._

“If the Headmaster doesn’t sack him, I’m sure Mycroft—”

“Waterproof the treetops!”

_He’s my friend! Leave him the hell alone._

John shakes his head, his anger suddenly burning brighter. “Friends don’t sell you drugs, Sherlock. They make you give it up, they help you…” The realization is unpleasant. John snorts; how could he be so naïve… “I should have known you gave it up too easily. Why wouldn’t you when you can get more so easily?”

“John!”

It’s the third time Sherlock has said John’s name. It never sounded like this – like lightning tearing the sky, deafening, a physical presence as much as sound. And it was never bursting with so much meaning.

Mycroft said Sherlock can fill one word with a lifetime. John believed him. He even had a hint of it when Sherlock ‘read’ the future of that annoying girl. But now… now he knows what it’s really like, and it’s like the blow from the hand of a giant. He staggers a little, raises a hand toward the nearest wall for support. He never makes contact; Sherlock grabs his arm and holds on tight. John clasps Sherlock’s arm in return and tries to process everything Sherlock just said.

Everything he just offered.

Because it’s a gift, John understands that right away. A painful, overwhelming gift, but a gift just the same. The gift of what it’s like to be Sherlock, or as close as it can be conveyed to someone who isn’t him.

It’s the constant, unending, unwanted flow of sheer knowledge that makes his head pound. It’s the frustration of being unable to communicate with most people – but they wouldn’t understand him even if he spoke perfect English, would they? It’s the loneliness, and how much he hates it, and how much he hates that he hates it, how much he wishes he could simply not care about it, but pretending is not the same as being true. It’s about having just one person in his life, and being utterly unable to rely on him because he failed Sherlock just once, and Sherlock failed him, and Sherlock knows it wasn’t either of their fault and he still can’t forgive him or himself. It’s the predictions he makes despite himself, the Messages that are pulled from him, and how useless they are. It’s about seeing his violin as his best friend, and having it taken from him. It’s about the soothing numbness he discovered in drugs; how fleeting that relief is, how destructive, but how necessary to keep his mind and hang on to what sanity he has.

And then… it’s about finding a voice for the first time. About finding a real friend for the first time. About feeling like there just might be a place for him in the world, and that place is close to a strong heart that always beats so steadily when his own stammers and breaks. It’s about the fear that it’s too good to be true, that he’s going to fuck everything up the way he always does. It’s about being given a choice, and realizing that it’s the wrong choice altogether. It’s about giving away the drugs – not just the actual drugs, but the need for them – and doing it not so that he’ll get a reward, but because he made the choice he wasn’t given, and he chose John.

And it’s about knowing one day he’ll stumble, one day he’ll fall and fall and not rise again, but until then he’s going to keep making the same choice. It’s about wishing John could believe that, really believe that. Really trust Sherlock. 

John blinks, and finds himself back to the here and now. Sherlock’s face is blank, guarded, and still with that insight lingering at the back of his mind – fading so fast already but some things John won’t ever forget – John understands that Sherlock’s afraid he said too much, left himself too vulnerable.

Pulling on Sherlock’s arm, John draws him close. Only when he wraps both arms around him does he realize they’re both shaking.

“I do trust you,” he whispers, and it’s nowhere near enough but it’s a start. It feels like they’ve had many starts today.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t go any further than that, because a proctor finds them and demands to know what they’re doing out of their dorm at this hour, and in their coats to boot.

“We need to see the Headmaster,” John mumbles; pulling away from Sherlock is painful, especially when he gives John a betrayed look. John takes his hand and squeezes it softly.

The proctor seems skeptical, but he does lead them to the Headmaster’s suite. They wait in his sitting room. He comes in with a robe open over his suit and tea for all of them. John tells him about the space station. He doesn’t tell him about the cook. From the corner of his eye he sees Sherlock relax ever so slightly in his seat.

John is a little surprised that the Headmaster doesn’t take notes. In fact, his only reaction is a nod. Only after drinking his tea does he say, “I’ll let the Minister know you confirmed it, then.”

“Confirmed?” John repeats, taken aback.

“Ah, yes, you haven’t met your new peer yet.” The Headmaster’s voice darkens ever so slightly. “I guess you were too busy lounging in bed all day. It will not happen again, by the way. This Academy has standards and a reputation to maintain, and you two will behave appropriately or there will be consequences.”

Sherlock snorts. John doesn’t feel like it really needs interpreting, but he does anyway.

“Kick us out. He can’t wait to be out of here. I wouldn’t mind all that much either.”

The Headmaster’s lips thin down to a narrow white line. “Go. Bedtime. And in your own beds, gentlemen.”

On the way back to their dorm, John asks, “Who do you think he meant when he said our ‘new peer’?”

Sherlock makes a dismissive gesture with his hand – the same one that took hold of John’s again before they’d even left the sitting room.

“Melting ice.”

_Unimportant._

“Okay,” John says, although he doesn’t really agree on that point. He supposes they’ll find out soon enough. “What is important, then?”

“Odds didn’t end but flowerpots will be taken. And feather pillows.”

_You didn’t tell him about Angelo. I’ll talk to him. Tell him he should look for another job before he gets arrested. He’ll believe me. Also you’re sleeping in my bed tonight._

John needs a second to figure out who Angelo is. He lets that topic drop and asks instead, “Am I? Is that a prediction or an invitation?”

In the end, it doesn’t really matter which it is. What matters is that the bed doesn’t seem small at all when they’re heart to heart.


	7. New Players

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is turning out a lot more complicated than when I first envisioned a 3-chapter story. Thank you to everyone who's along for the ride, your trust that i'll make it worth the pain is much appreciated.

They skip breakfast on Sunday to enjoy some morning cuddling in the deserted dorm room, so it’s only at lunchtime that their new agreement is first tested. John goes through the line as usual, pretending he’s not keeping a close eye on Sherlock. Sherlock knows, of course; his small eye roll says as much.

He doesn’t exactly fill up his tray, but a little food is better than none – especially when he does eat it. John tries hard not to grin. It doesn’t work so well, and it earns him a second eye roll – and a quickly hidden smile.

They do see that new peer the Headmaster mentioned, a lanky boy with a wide smile who moves through the cafeteria line with a veritable entourage around him. The table he chooses is immediately crowded. Molly is there, John notes idly. She might have found someone new to crush on – that’d be good. He’s about to say something about it when he notices Sherlock is looking at that table too with an absentminded expression John has seen before.

“What is it?” he asks, instantly alert. “What are you seeing?”

Sherlock blinks, then frowns lightly as he looks away. 

“Dust motes.”

_Nothing of interest._

Pushing his tray away, he looks toward the kitchen and adds before John can prod a little more, “The cracking flowerpot will fall down. See any rocks?”

_I’ll go talk to Angelo. Did you want to be there?_

“Shouldn’t I be?” John asks. “He didn’t seem to understand you much at all.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Keystrokes along the board.”

_He does better when I use small words. It won’t take long._

Still, he doesn’t stand, and instead observes John as though waiting for something. It’s not too hard to guess what.

“I trust you,” John says quietly. 

And he really does.

*

That afternoon, they’re back in the auditorium, and John’s plan to work on his homework just goes out the window. Sherlock is playing John’s birthday song. It’s a rare enough occurrence to always feel special. John listens, keeping his eyes on Sherlock the entire time; one day, he thinks absently as his heart beats in time to the music. One day Sherlock will play this with his eyes open, and John already knows what he’ll see in them. He can wait.

About halfway through, the music comes to an abrupt end, drawing John out of a daydream. He frowns lightly, and finds that Sherlock is looking to the back of the room. As John turns to follow his gaze, a voice rises, coming down toward them.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

Just two words, but they buzz with more, an undercurrent that takes John aback. He’s so used to hearing more behind Sherlock’s words, it barely registers anymore that the sound and meaning don’t match when he speaks. To have the same experience with someone else, however, is jarring.

‘Sherlock Holmes,’ the new student says as he approaches them, flanked on one side by Molly and on the other by a girl John can’t remember seeing before. What he means, on the other hand, is ‘No, don’t stop playing on my account. I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time but I can wait a few more moments.’

Turning to Sherlock, John is about to interpret the newcomer’s words for him, but as Sherlock speaks, John realizes he doesn’t need to. Apparently, Prophets understand each other. He did not know that. And he has absolutely no reason to feel annoyed; no, none at all.

“Spiders cling to the rafters,” Sherlock says.

_Not all music is meant for everyone. Why would you care so much to meet me? Surely there isn’t anything I can tell you that you don’t already know._

“Do they understand each other?” Molly asks, sotto voce, her eyes going from the other girl to John.

“Of course they do,” the girl replies, and John realizes who she is: the boy’s interpreter, of course. John doesn’t like her small smirk as she looks at Sherlock, not any more than he likes the boy’s grin.

“Why not?” he says, the hint of an Irish accent clinging to the words.

_Why wouldn’t I want to meet you? The youngest Prophet in Europe. I was the youngest before you, you know. I’m just three short months older. Speaking of, happy birthday, somewhat belatedly. I hoped to give you my wishes yesterday but as I understand it you were… indisposed._

His gaze flickers toward John for the briefest instant, and while he’s still grinning, there’s no warmth in his dark eyes.

That mention of a birthday draws John’s full attention back to Sherlock. Were they alone, he’d reach out to Sherlock right about now, make sure he’s all right – but doing that much in front of an audience doesn’t seem like the best idea.

Rather than answering, Sherlock turns away, returning to the edge of the stage where he left his violin case. He takes a little longer than necessary to put his violin away, then comes back. An eyebrow raised toward John asks if he’s ready to go; John nods.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock says with the barest inclination of his head, like a condescending acknowledgment of the other Prophet. John needs a second to realize that’s the boy’s name.

_Well, now you’ve met me. How fabulous. You can go back to the Dublin Academy and rave about it. If you’ll excuse us, we have places to be._

He starts up the inclined path toward the exit, John at his side. Moriarty’s voice calls out after them.

“Bye for now.”

_Oh, I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock. I worked too hard to get here to leave that fast. There’ll just be two Prophets in this school. So next time you feel like sleeping in, don’t worry. I’ll be sure to give important Messages to whoever should hear them._

John glances at Sherlock as they leave the auditorium. Ticked off is a very mild way of describing how he looks.

“Are you going to tell me?” he asks quietly.

Sherlock huffs.

_Tell you what, now?_

“What you see when you look at him. Why you were so upset the moment he walked in. Anything. Talk to me, Sherlock. I can’t read your mind, only your words.”

That earns him an eye roll – and the tiniest smile that ever was.

“Cobwebs cover the garden. But horses still waltz.”

_There’s something off about him. I can’t really see him, his future is… blurry. Like it’s always changing. I’ve never seen that before. And I don’t like it. And on top of it he interrupted your concerto. That just won’t do._

That last bit is easy to fix, at least. They go back to their tree, and Sherlock starts from the first note again. His breath rises in white puffs in front of him as he plays. When he’s done and has put the violin away, John takes his hands and blows gently on them, then kisses his fingers, warming them up. In exchange, Sherlock kisses his lips – and warms all of him.

*

Meeting Moriarty is an eye-opener for John. He suddenly realizes that he knows very little about Prophets and he’s determined to change that. Sherlock is amused when he sees what John reads, either online or in books borrowed from the school library. He reads over John’s shoulder, every now and then, and sighs at what he thinks is wrong. For the most part, though, John thinks the information is accurate. There are variations from Prophet to Prophet – Moriarty, for one thing, seems able to focus his spoken words so that they match the general idea of what he says; Sherlock, as far as John can tell, is only able to do it with names.

What all sources seem to agree on is that Prophets have different brain patterns and chemistry from the rest of the population. Combined with a few articles about addiction – and those, John is careful to hide from Sherlock – it begins to draw a picture of how the drugs affected Sherlock, and how he was able to stop (seemingly) so easily. John keeps notes about it all in a password-protected file on his laptop. He has no doubt that Sherlock could figure out the password, but the keyboard is useless to him – something else all sources confirm.

Books and articles also tell a lot about predictions done in the past and their accuracy, or how helpful they were to preventing events. That, too, John takes notes about; he has the beginning of an idea, right at the back of his mind. The smallest spark of hope. He has to at least try.

*

They sleep in the same bed every night, now. Nothing more than sleep, not even kisses, not unless they’re alone in the dorm. Their dorm mates blabbed, of course, and the whole school knows.

It’s hard to tell if the mutters and odd looks that follow them everywhere are because of their sleeping arrangements or because of Moriarty. Now that the Academy boasts a new Prophet as part of its student body – now that everyone knows he has Messages for the Minister of the Future at least once a day, since his interpreter Kitty was kind enough to spread that information around – Sherlock’s weekly predictions don’t seem quite enough anymore to garner him much good will from anyone.

Sherlock, of course, doesn’t appear to give a damn about any of it. But John does. He knows how extraordinary Sherlock is. He doesn’t like anyone to doubt that. 

He doesn’t like _Sherlock_ to doubt that, either.

*

After that first talk in the auditorium, Moriarty doesn’t approach Sherlock again, although whenever they’re in the same room, John notices, Moriarty’s eyes follow Sherlock avidly, while Sherlock looks anywhere but at him. Something’s brewing, and John doesn’t need to be a Prophet to realize it won’t be pretty.

*

Two weeks and a half after Sherlock’s birthday, they celebrate John’s first year as Sherlock’s interpreter.

It’s a little bittersweet for John, since he’s all too aware that’s half the amount of time Sherlock said they’d have, but he puts up a good front and produces the small gift he had all the pains in the world buying without Sherlock knowing about it.

Sherlock takes the present, a thin smile gracing his lips.

“Aren’t you opening it?” John asks.

“Carrousels.”

_You first._

And then there’s a second present in Sherlock’s hands. Suspiciously enough, it’s the same size and rough shape as the one John just gave him. When John tears the wrapping paper off, he finds a snow globe, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. In the middle of the swirling white flakes, the figures of two children throw snow balls at each other. John chose it because it reminded him of that first snow at the manor, and their snowball fight, and what followed.

“That’s cheating,” he says, his throat tight but a grin stretching his lips.

Sherlock shrugs and opens his present, holding it right next to John’s like a mirror.

“Blue butterflies don’t die.”

_How was I supposed to come up with a better idea than that?_

John doesn’t reply with more than a kiss, doesn’t even ask how Sherlock got his gift since he can’t use the computer. It doesn’t matter right now. All that matters is this one, perfect moment. All that matters is a kiss, as sweet as sugar.

All that matters is that John has one year, maybe a little more, maybe a little less to find a solution to his problem, the one and only problem that matters.

*

On the next visit day, Mycroft comes to find them in the auditorium. He listens for a little while, his expression unreadable except for a softness right at the corner of his eyes. When he motions for John to come with him, John reluctantly follows. The back of the room is far enough that, if they speak quietly, they won’t disturb Sherlock.

“I received a call from the Headmaster on Sherlock’s birthday,” Mycroft says, his eyes flicking between Sherlock in front of the scene and John next to him. “I have to say I feared something more dire than what I was told.”

John can feel his cheeks heat up but he tries not to let it touch his voice. He has nothing to be ashamed about. 

“Yeah, the Headmaster doesn’t seem too happy about our sleeping arrangements. Not that either of us cares much what he thinks. Do you think he’s going to expel us?”

Mycroft shakes his head, his attention back to the front of the room. “Not if he intends to keep his job. But nevermind that pompous man. Tell me about Sherlock’s birthday.”

When John remains silent, Mycroft frowns at him. “Well?”

“I’m not your spy,” John says coolly. “He’s all right. He’s gonna stay all right if I have anything to say about it. That’s all you need to know.”

Mycroft looks ready to argue, so John adds quickly, “He asked me to tell you something. I’m supposed to wait until… until later, but I figure you might as well hear it now. He said it’s not your fault. He meant his d-death—” God, but that word is hard to say. “—but I know he means it for your parents, too.”

Two quick blinks are the extent of Mycroft’s reaction. Right then, Sherlock’s violin finally falls silent. Both Mycroft and John turn to him.

“Would you… would you give us a moment?” Mycroft asks, his voice rougher than usual. He doesn’t wait for John’s answer before walking down to Sherlock.

Taking a seat at the back oft he auditorium, John watches them without trying to make out the quiet words they share. Being with Sherlock so much, he has started to pick up a few of his observation skills. Body language is tricky, too much so for John to be sure of anything, but he remembers the very first time Mycroft came on a weekend visit. They’re light-years from that, now. He can’t help but smile to himself.

They’re still talking when the door opens, and a man pokes his head in. Middle-aged, with graying hair and a hesitant smile, he walks in, his trenchcoat swishing around him.

“Hi. I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes? I was told I might find him in the auditorium. Is he here?”

“Depends,” John says, standing and observing the man closely. “Who’s looking for him?”

The man transfers a bunch of files from the crook of one arm to the other and offers his hand to John. “Detective Inspector Lestrade. Scotland Yard. Are you Sherlock?”

John shakes his hand warily.

“No, I’m not. I’m his interpreter. What do you want with him?”

Lestrade’s gaze sweeps the room, and it doesn’t take him long to find Sherlock and Mycroft.

“He helped us solve a string of murders, a few months ago. I was wondering if he’d care to do it again.”

Mycroft is dead-set against it. So of course, Sherlock agrees to look at the files Lestrade brought. He flips through the first one, his eyes flying over the text while Mycroft continues to tell Lestrade this is entirely inappropriate, and he can expect to be disciplined for intruding into the Academy. Lestrade, as far as John can tell, isn’t all that impressed with Mycroft’s threats – but he is however very impressed when Sherlock hands him the first file back with a curt, “Lace over the waterfall,” that John immediately translates as, “Check for chalk dust on the wife’s and sister’s shoes. The murderer will have dusty shoes from walking through the amphitheater.”

“How did you know the body was found in an amphitheater?” Lestrade asks, the surprise all too apparent in his voice. "That's not in the file, is it?"

Sherlock merely shrugs. He’s already reading the next file. That one doesn’t take him any longer than the first. It goes like this for the next two as well, and a light huff as Sherlock opens the last one means, ‘This is too easy. I can’t believe they couldn’t solve all these on their own.’

John refrains from telling Lestrade about that particular assessment.

The last file, however, isn’t so easy. Half an hour later, the dozen or so sheets it contained are spread out on the scene of the auditorium, and Sherlock is crouching in front of each of them in turns, muttering under his breath. Seated in the front row, John, Mycroft and Lestrade watch him as though he were a one-man play. Mycroft has apparently given up on stopping whatever is happening here, and instead he tells Lestrade in a quiet voice, “You realize this can’t get out of here. If it became known that Sherlock is helping Scotland Yard, the Minister of the Future would no doubt strenuously object. He’s rather particular about who has access to Prophets.”

Lestrade laughs wryly. “Do you think I want my superiors to know I’m asking for the help of an underage boy for my cold cases?”

It takes Sherlock another fifteen minutes, but he comes up with an answer. Lestrade leaves blown away and thrilled, and with Sherlock’s permission to bring him more files – “But only if they’re truly interesting.” Mycroft, for his part, seems bemused as he offers his goodbyes. And Sherlock… Sherlock is more excited than John has ever seen him. He babbles all through dinner about how he figured out who the guilty party was in each case. None of it was about him being a Prophet, just about him seeing what others didn’t.

“Brilliant,” John says at the first lull in his expose. Sherlock beams at him.


	8. Getting It Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kudos, comments and encouragements <3

A month or so after he first introduced himself, Moriarty approaches Sherlock again. This time, he does so in the cafeteria, and he and his interpreter are sitting at John’s and Sherlock’s table by the time they get out of the line. Their usual entourage is conspicuously absent.

“Let’s sit somewhere else,” John suggests, already scanning the room for another table.

Sherlock clucks his tongue and steps forward.

_I’m not afraid of him._

Moriarty is sitting in what is usually Sherlock’s seat, with Kitty next to him. Sherlock sits down in John’s chair, leaving John to pick between sitting across Kitty or at the end of the table, on Moriarty’s left and Sherlock’s right. Neither option is terribly appealing, but he chooses the second one.

“Do you like Bach?” Moriarty says, addressing Sherlock.

_I meant to apologize again for interrupting you. It’s a pity you couldn’t finish that melody._

“Bridges,” Sherlock replies.

_There’s nothing for you to be concerned about. I did finish it._

Moriarty smiles. It’s not a pleasant smile.

“Did you?”

_That’s nice to hear. Although I guess it’d have been even nicer to hear it played through. I so hate unfinished business, don’t you?_

Sherlock doesn’t respond. He’s eating the food on his tray with that look John knows so well, the one that means ‘this is unpleasant and the sooner it ends, the better’. John eats quickly; he doesn’t want Sherlock to have to wait for him.

“I love new music,” Moriarty continues.

_I’d never heard that piece before. It’s one of yours, isn’t it? What is it called?_

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” John interjects, drawing three frowns to him. Two of them he couldn’t care less about, but what did he do to upset Sherlock?

“Rude,” Moriarty says.

_I wasn’t talking to you. Who do you think you are, talking to a Prophet like that? Do you have any idea how many interpreters there are out there, better suited for this task than you are?_

“Torn webs sing for no flies,” Sherlock says sharply.

_No one is better suited for being my interpreter. Why don’t you just leave us both alone?_

Moriarty bares his teeth, and it can’t really be called a smile anymore. He stands, straightening the jacket of his uniform, then tightening his tie ever so slightly. He leaves the tray on the table, and Kitty picks it up as though she’s used to doing so. Walking around the table behind John, Moriarty stops by Sherlock and leans in close. John can’t hear what he says; he can however see Sherlock’s eyes flash with anger.

When they’re finally alone, John asks Sherlock what Moriarty said. And while Sherlock’s answer translates as, ‘nothing important’, it rings like a lie in John’s ears.

*

Mycroft skips the next weekend visit. DI Lestrade doesn’t.

He brings three files, this time; two are closed cases, the third is still being investigated. That last one in particular captivates Sherlock, and he questions Lestrade about additional details. Lestrade sits on the edge of John’s bed, looking mildly uncomfortable about being in a dormitory with two young men. John interprets whenever needed, looking at the transcripts and pictures over Sherlock’s shoulder, hiding a smile when Sherlock mutters under his breath about the incompetence of whoever took the crime scene pictures, managing to miss everything of importance. It doesn’t stop Sherlock from solving it, though.

When Lestrade leaves with his answers and profuse thanks, Sherlock draws John down onto the bed and proceeds to kiss him within an inch of his life – or an inch of making a mess of his pants. If John had enough functioning brain cells left, he’d wonder that Sherlock doesn’t seem to have the same problem.

*

By Easter, rumors that they fuck right under the nose of their dorm mates spread through the school. John tries to figure out who’s behind it, to no avail. He even gets all three of their dorm mates to admit, in front of witnesses, that the most they’ve ever seen or heard were a few kisses, and still the rumor lingers, with new details spreading every few days.

Sherlock likes John to fuck his throat hard; that’s why he barely speaks to anyone: he’s always sore.

They don’t just fuck in their bed, they do so in the auditorium, too. One time, Molly walked in on them and they forced her to watch until they were done. The more she blushes and denies that’s true, the more people are sure it is.

John’s always the one topping, because Sherlock’s cock is too small to please anyone. But that’s not a Prophet thing, not at all; Moriarty’s living proof of that, isn’t he?

On and on, it goes. John is infuriated, and he’s not sure what annoys him the most: that they’re all such blatant lies, that everyone seems to believe them including the teachers, that Sherlock can’t be bothered to react with more than an occasional shrug – or that every new, improbable scenario makes him wish at least some of it was true. He doesn’t mind taking care of his own needs, but he does imagine more and more often about doing a little more than kiss Sherlock. Or even a lot more.

The end of the school year can’t come fast enough.

They are finally summoned to the Headmaster’s office where they are lectured for half an hour. John remains as calm as he can manage as he asks the Headmaster to produce one witness – just one – to the supposed ‘depraved acts’ they’ve been committing all over the school. The Headmaster sends them away with a glare and a warning that their luck is bound to run out.

The rumors, thankfully, start to cool down a little. John has no doubt they’ll flare again sooner or later.

*

With one month left to the school year, Molly approaches John, one day, after the end of one of the classes they have in common. She blushes brightly when she says, “Could you… could you give a message to Sherlock for me?”

John glances to the back of the room, where Sherlock doesn’t seem to have noticed the class is over; his face is all but glued to the microscope.

“You can tell him yourself, you know,” he tells her with a half smile. “He understands what we say just fine.”

If anything, her cheeks turn an even brighter red. She holds her books to her chest like a shield.

“Oh, I know that. It’s just… Well, I know he doesn’t care much for me. And I don’t want to upset him. I just… I just want him to know I don’t hold it against him. You know, what he said about my future. I’m sure he didn’t get it wrong on purpose. Prophets make mistakes, sometimes. Jim explained it to me. How sometimes they just see the surface, but if they try looking harder they can see more. So, I mean, it’s all right if Sherlock made a mistake. I’m not mad or anything.”

With that, she glances toward Sherlock, then leaves the room. John watches her go, frowning lightly. He can read between the lines. She’s become close to Moriarty, lately. Very close. Close enough, it seems, that he predicted her future, and his prediction was apparently very different from Sherlock’s. John isn’t sure what to think of that.

Hoisting his backpack onto one shoulder, he goes to the back of the room. Before he can point out to Sherlock that it’s time to go to lunch, Sherlock asks without looking up from the microscope, “Did the tulips burn?”

_What did she want?_

John grimaces. Why couldn’t Sherlock be oblivious, for once?

“She… well, she seems to believe you were wrong when you predicted she’ll never do anything special. And she wanted me to tell you that she’s not mad about it.”

Sherlock huffs, finally pushing away from his observation to scribble a few notes.

_I wasn’t wrong. Why would she think I was wrong?_

John doesn’t reply. He doesn’t actually know for sure, he just has a guess, and—

Another huff.

_Oh. Of course. **He** must have filled her head with nonsense._

—and Sherlock can figure out the same thing.

“Why would he, though?” John asks as they make their way to the cafeteria. “Lying to her about it isn’t any nicer than telling her the truth.”

Sherlock has no answer, but John can’t fail to notice that, at lunchtime, he observes Molly very carefully as she crosses the cafeteria to join Moriarty’s table. His frown reveals nothing, and after a moment John can’t help but ask, “Do you see anything different about her?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “The cards never fly.”

_She’s the same. She’ll have a nice life, I suppose. As nice as these things can be. But she’s still not going to do anything significant. He lied to her. What’s his game?_

John has no more answer than Sherlock does. Unless…

“Maybe he likes her,” he offers with a shrug. “You know, _likes_ her. People do strange things when they like someone.”

Blinking, Sherlock finally looks away from Molly and Moriarty, and turns his eyes to John.

“Windmills?” he says in a mild voice.

_You mean, like trying to change the future simply because they don’t like it even though they know it’s useless?_

John holds his gaze. “Exactly like that, yes.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and sighs.

_How boring. Also, he doesn’t like her. He’s gay._

John has never doubted Sherlock – not even when he really wishes he could be wrong – but that last pronouncement startles him. Granted, he’s not an expert on the subject. After all, he didn’t even know if Sherlock might see him that way until their first kiss. But Moriarty is not exactly subtle whenever he walks down the hallway with his arm around Molly, or his hand in hers. Unless that’s all just another lie. And the question remains the same – why?

*

Being summoned to the Headmaster again is not pleasant. When it happens just a day after they’ve gone to him for their weekly message, Sherlock gets grumpy. The good thing about him being grumpy is that he can rant all he wants without getting in trouble for what he knows about the proctor escorting them. John, on the other hand, has a hard time keeping a straight face and answering, “Oh, nothing much” when the proctor asks what Sherlock is saying. But after all, the man is well aware that he enjoys putting on a girl’s uniform and asking one of the students for spankings; he hardly needs to hear it from someone else.

Sherlock enters the headmaster’s office first, and pauses for the briefest instant. John understands why when, following after him, he sees that Moriarty and Kitty are also there. They’re in the only two seats on this side of the desk, so Sherlock and John remain standing by the door.

“Gentlemen,” the Headmaster says briskly. “This is about the Message you gave yesterday. You warned of a terrorist bombing that is to take place in a bus in West London next Tuesday. Correct?”

Sherlock gives a small nod.

“Would you care to revisit that Message and clarify the details, maybe?”

From the corner of his eye, John can see Sherlock’s head snapping up. His voice is ice when he asks, “Are wooden houses drowning?”

“Why?” John interprets. “I gave you the date, the bus line, the location and the body count. What else do you want?”

The Headmaster picks up the sheet of paper in front of him and fiddles with it. For a second or two, he glances at Moriarty. John follows his gaze. The small smile on Moriarty’s lips could almost be called ‘concerned’ if his eyes weren’t so cold.

“Well,” the Headmaster says, looking back at Sherlock, “Jim here had a strikingly similar Message. But a couple of details are different from yours. The Minister of the Future would like you to check your information.”

Sherlock snorts. “Dead dai—”

_I don’t need to check, I know perfectly well what I—_

John glances at Sherlock. It’s not like him to stop mid-thought. His brow is furrowed, his gaze unfocused, his lips pinched tight. He’s looking back at that prediction, John realizes.

Twelve dead, thirty-nine wounded, and Sherlock once said he can feel their pain. Without thinking, John slides his hand over Sherlock’s, holds it tight. Sherlock squeezes back once, then shakes his head.

“Caramel fudge,” he says coolly.

Startled, John doesn’t interpret right away. It’s the first time he’s ever heard Sherlock come back on a prediction.

“Well?” the Headmaster prompts, impatient.

Kitty answers before John can find his words. The smugness in her voice is so thick that John wishes she’d choke on it.

“He’s changing his mind. He said the bomb will be in a backpack under a bench. Like Jim said.”

The Headmaster is less than impressed. He thanks Kitty and Moriarty – but not Sherlock – and dismisses them all. Sherlock strides out, his fingers curled over John’s tight enough to hurt.

“Ink stains,” Sherlock hisses.

_I didn’t change my mind. The bomber did._

“It’s okay,” Moriarty says behind them. John glances back in time to see him pat Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock practically jumps away from that touch.

_Don’t worry about it. Everybody makes mistakes. You’ve been so distracted, it’s understandable._

There’s just the edge of a laugh behind his words. John has the sudden urge to punch him in the nose. It’s been a while since he wanted to do that to anyone, and it’s all he can do to contain himself.

“Shut the hell up,” he mutters, glaring at Moriarty. “And keep your hands to yourself.”

It must be the wrong thing to do and say, because that evening, Sherlock decides he’d rather be alone in bed; he has to think, he says, and John is too ‘distracting’.

John tries not to read too much in that, tries not to let it hurt him. He tosses and turns a lot, that night, and doesn’t get much sleep. Judging from the deep circles under Sherlock’s eyes the next morning, neither does he.

*

For the next four days, Sherlock is in the foulest mood John has ever witnessed, and nothing John says seems to help. Even in the very beginning, when Sherlock didn’t speak to John at all, it never felt this bad. Then again, back in the beginning John didn’t care about Sherlock as much as he does now.

When the weekend rolls in and Lestrade shows up for the last visit day of the year, John hopes the handful of files he brought with him will distract Sherlock long enough that he’ll forget to be mad at the world. It doesn’t work so well. Sherlock tears through the files, giving each one no more than a minute or two of his attention and flinging his answers like live grenades. John interprets only the relevant parts, and doesn’t bother mentioning Sherlock’s rather unflattering opinions of Scotland Yard’s brightest minds.

Lestrade does pick up on the mood, and in between two files quietly asks John if he’s done anything wrong. John shakes his head and tells him that’s just Sherlock being a little overdramatic. Truth is, he’s not sure what’s up with him. If the bomber changed his mind, it’s hardly Sherlock’s fault, so why is he so upset?

Mycroft arrives just as Lestrade prepares to leave, and the two of them exchange a few words, interrupted by Sherlock shouting his brother’s name from the auditorium’s scene.

 _You’ve got to investigate Jim Moriarty,_ that angry summon demands. _There’s something very wrong about him. I still can’t figure out what but I know it._

Mycroft approaches the scene and looks up, hands folded in front of him. He looks as calm, as composed as Sherlock is agitated.

“I already did,” he says coolly. “As soon as I learned another Prophet had asked to come to this particular Academy, I did some research.”

Sherlock jumps off the stage and stands by his brother, arms crossed, the most mulish expression on his face. He doesn’t ask what Mycroft found out, but it’s clear he wants to know. And Mycroft, for some reason known only to him, keeps his mouth shut as though waiting to be asked. John sighs. Sherlock acts like a kid, at times, but Mycroft really isn’t all that much better.

“What did you find out?” John asks, putting an end to the standoff.

“Surprisingly enough, nothing. Which of course means someone went through a lot of trouble hiding something. I’ll keep digging, but foreign governments can be as protective of their Prophets as we are of ours. I’m still not quite sure how he convinced his handlers to let him come here. Something else I’ll figure out eventually.”

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock stalks back to where he left his violin when Lestrade came in. He picks up the instrument and draws a few notes from it, but seems to change his mind and starts tuning the strings instead.

“How long has he been like this?” Mycroft asks very quietly.

“Four days. There was a Message—”

“The bombing, yes,” Mycroft interrupts. He considers his brother for a moment, then turns a sharp gaze to John. “You might want to keep a closer eye on him until he calms down.”

John’s only reply is a flat stare. He really didn’t need that warning. And while he still trusts Sherlock, he’s rather glad the cook is long gone.

By the time Mycroft leaves, after enquiring, as a pure formality, whether John will spend the summer at the manor, Sherlock is still fiddling with the strings of his violin, plucking at one of them every so often and drawing out strident notes.

“Is the microscope broken?” he asks, raising a sharp look to John.

_Are you going to keep a closer eye on me, then? Or maybe put a leash around my neck?_

Sighing, John goes to him. He tugs the violin out of Sherlock’s hands and sets it aside. Then he cups Sherlock’s face in both his hands, stroking sharp cheekbones with his thumbs.

“You want to know what I’m going to do? Okay. Here’s what I have in mind. Right now, I’m going to kiss you. Then we’ll go to the dorm and you can give me more weird data to put on your website, and I won’t even ask who in the world cares about that kind of stuff. Later we’ll have dinner, and I’ll stop pretending not to notice that you barely touch your food. Tonight I’ll sleep in your bed. And if at any time during all that you want to tell me why on earth you’re so mad, I’d really, really like that.”

He gives Sherlock a second or two to reply. When he doesn’t, John kisses him as promised, sweet and slow, one hand still cupping his cheek, the other sliding through his hair to the back of his head. Sherlock is passive at first, accepting the kiss without offering anything. After a moment, he yields, returning each gentle touch, even curling a hand over John’s side. When they pull apart, he presses his forehead to John’s. His eyes are still closed when he murmurs, “Purple hyacinths.”

_I’m sorry._

He still doesn’t explain anything, but that’s all right. It can wait. For now, John presses one kiss to each of his eyes, then another one on the tip of his nose, and the quickly stifled laugh he draws from Sherlock is the best sound in the world.

*

That laugh, at dinnertime, is nothing more than a memory. Right as they sit down, Moriarty comes to their table. He flashes John a smile, then leans in close to Sherlock. Not so close that Sherlock moves away, but close enough that, with the ambient noise of a hundred voices chattering, John can’t hear what he says. Whatever it is, Sherlock doesn’t respond, and Moriarty leaves – although not before squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I swear, next time he touches you I’m going to break his fucking wrist,” John mutters, glaring at the back of Moriarty’s head.

Sherlock doesn’t reply. Nor does he say a word when John asks him what Moriarty said. In fact, he doesn’t say another word until late that night, and by then John is already half asleep.

“John?” he whispers.

What he’s asking, John realizes after a second or two, is _Do you still trust me?_

“’F course I do,” John mumbles against Sherlock’s shoulder. “Wish you’d trust me too, y’know.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, and that’s an answer in itself, isn’t it? All of a sudden, John doesn’t feel so sleepy anymore.

*

The bomb is found before it detonates. The bomber gets away. The entire school ‘accidentally’ learns that Moriarty gave a Message that saved a dozen lives. At the same time, another piece of gossip starts circulating: Sherlock gave a Message too, but his was wrong.

It’s not too difficult to figure out who is leaking all this information, supposedly confidential. John rants and says he’ll inform the Headmaster, or even the Minister of the Future. Sherlock’s eyes are achingly empty when he points out that these rumors are true, so why bother? 

Going away for the summer is a relief only tainted by the knowledge that they’ll have to return.


	9. The Best Summer

Lazy mornings with long, lingering kisses are fast becoming John’s favorite thing in the world. If it were up to him, they’d happen every day, but more often than not he wakes up alone in bed, with Sherlock already analyzing something or other. John doesn’t mind, though. This is who Sherlock is; it’s not like John didn’t know until now.

This morning, Sherlock is still asleep when John wakes up. In the faint ambient light, he watches him for a little while, detailing the way his eyelashes curl ever so slightly, and the shape of his mouth, barely open, and the perfect angle of his cheekbones, and the delicate curve of his neck, and just the peek of his collarbone where the neckline of his t-shirt stretches down.

Sherlock’s eyes remain closed, but a twitch of his lips toward a smile and a light hum betray he’s awake.

_What are you looking at so intently?_

“Just trying to decide where to kiss,” John murmurs, and finally settles on Sherlock’s neck. His mouth presses right on the pulse point and for a few seconds, he just feels that steady beat against his lips, enjoying the warmth and rhythm. He finally parts his lips and licks that same spot gently, oh so gently… then sucks, hard, hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough that Sherlock’s grabs his hair with both hands and John thinks he’s going to be pushed away. But no; Sherlock only holds on and lets himself be marked. Claimed, though he probably doesn’t see it that way.

Another, deeper hum draws a quiet laugh out of John.

_That hardly felt like a kiss. Not complaining, just saying._

In reply, John kisses him, just a chaste press of lips to lips at first, then slowly more, pressing inside his mouth and touching everywhere. Claiming, again, if only in his own head. Sherlock is still half asleep and mostly passive, though he holds on tight to John and lets out a little noise of protest when John pulls away.

“Sherlock?” John whispers, his throat suddenly tight with nervousness. He’s been wanting more for so long, he doesn’t even know what to ask for. “Can I… Can I touch you?”

Sherlock hums again, quiet and drowsy. 

_You’re already touching me, silly._

The words are clear in John’s head, and yet he’s not certain how to interpret them. He’s touching Sherlock, sure; John’s lying alongside him, and his right hand is pressed to Sherlock’s chest, right above his heart. That’s not what he meant, though. Is Sherlock telling him this is as far as he can go? Or is he saying all touching is the same and John can just go ahead?

In doubt, he remains very still; Sherlock’s small smile fades, and his eyes open, no trace of sleepiness left in them.

“Fingertips?” he says in a hesitant tone John isn’t used to.

_When you say touch… do you mean something different than what you’re doing right now?_

John can feel the blush creeping over his cheeks. He gives a small shrug and a tense smile. Something inside him tightens painfully when Sherlock looks away, then slides out of bed.

There’s a robe hanging on a hook behind the door. John has never seen Sherlock wear it. This morning, he puts it on, knotting the belt tightly.

“There are calico cats in the barn,” he says, barely glancing at John before stepping out.

_Why don’t you go take a shower? I’ll bring you up some tea and toast for breakfast._

John presses his hands to his face and swallows a groan. Right, that didn’t go anywhere as well as he hoped. He’s even pretty sure he scared Sherlock. That’s… unexpected. And not good.

*

The tea and toast are cold by the time John comes out of the bathroom. He drinks and eats anyway, thanking Sherlock, who doesn’t seem to hear. He’s back to his microscope and experiments. John opens his mouth, intending to remind him he promised he’d come out and get some fresh air today. In the end, he says nothing and slips out of the room, unnoticed.

It’s still early, but the air is already warm. John walks to the pond, where it’s cooler, and lies down in the grass, arms folded behind his head, his eyes closed against the glare of sunlight.

He tries not to think about what happened, but it’s hard not to when he feels like he broke something between him and Sherlock. He just thought… But it doesn’t matter what he thought. If Sherlock had wanted more, he’d have initiated it, the same way he kissed John first, or invited him into his bed.

“The biscuits are burning.”

_You’re going to get sunburned, lying in the sun like that._

John’s eyes remain closed as he listens to Sherlock’s steps in the grass. He doesn’t mention how, in that phrase, he’s the biscuits, or makes a tasteless joke about whether Sherlock wants a taste. Yesterday, he might have said it, but not today.

Sherlock’s shadow falls over John for a moment, then he must sit because his voice is much closer when he asks, “Do the clouds drift far?”

_Are you mad at me?_

John sighs. “No. Mad at myself. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Or scared you.”

Sitting up, he blinks a few times to clear his vision and looks at Sherlock. He seems wary, and he’s clutching his violin to his chest. There’s a purple mark at the crook of his neck, and John’s throat feels too tight again.

“You know I’d never do anything unless you wanted it too, right? I can wait until you’re ready.”

Sherlock tilts his head and observes John for what feels like much too long. What does he see, when he looks so intently?

“Tuesdays never end,” he whispers.

_What if I’m never ready?_

John can’t stop himself from frowning. It never actually occurred to him that Sherlock might never want more. Granted, things never seem to get as heated for him as they do for John, but he does enjoy their snogs, John is sure of it. So why…

He shuts that train of thought. It doesn’t matter why.

“I’d never do anything unless you wanted it too,” John repeats, willing Sherlock to believe him.

Sherlock smiles. “Sunbeams.”

_I know. And I’m sorry if I make it hard for you._

John’s first thought is that there’s a terrible pun in there. The second, that Sherlock made that terrible pun on purpose. The third, that he’s not sorry at all.

“You berk,” he says with a snort.

Sherlock’s smile gets a little crooked. He raises the violin, closes his eyes, and starts playing. John watches him for a little while, then shuts his eyes as well and lets the music flow over him. It’s a long piece, somewhat familiar; Mozart, maybe? There are many things John never imagined would happen before he met Sherlock; learning to recognize classical music is definitely on the list.

Sherlock plays a second piece after this one, and only when he’s done does he say, oh so very quietly, “Sugar plums don’t need to taste wrong. They can be sweet.”

_I don’t mind, you know. Just because I’m not interested in that kind of things doesn’t mean you should be ashamed. It’s okay if you can’t control how your body reacts._

For a second, John thinks Sherlock is teasing him again, but a quick look reveals an earnest expression. He means that. He means every word. He really does. And he probably means to be understanding, but it still feels like a kick to the stomach. 

“Right,” John says dryly. “I shouldn’t be ashamed that I’m attracted to you. Glad you cleared that up for me because it was really tearing me apart.”

“More clouds.”

_Now you are mad._

John snorts. “Good deduction, Sherlock. Certainly more accurate than thinking I’d be bloody ashamed for getting hard when I snog my boyfriend. I’m eighteen, for chrissakes! I’d be more concerned if I _didn’t_ get hard!”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he realizes what he’s saying. His eyes widen and he shakes his head.

“No, no I don’t mean… Sherlock, it’s not…”

But Sherlock’s face has closed off. “It’s the name,” he says coolly.

_This is who I am. If it’s not enough for you, don’t worry. In a few months you’ll be rid of me._

He starts to stand, but John is faster. He throws both arms around his waist, his upper body lying awkwardly on Sherlock’s lap, preventing him from going anywhere. Sherlock heaves a sigh.

_Get off me, John._

“Not until you forgive me. I didn’t mean anything by it. I just… this is all new for me, okay? I’ve never… I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you. And the last thing I want is to lose you. Or do anything to hurt you. I hope you know that.”

Sherlock’s body is tense against John’s. Little by little, he relaxes, finally sweeping the same hand that still holds the bow over John’s hair.

“The music needn’t be discordant.”

_I’ll forgive you if you forgive me. My choice of words wasn’t much better than yours._

John presses a strangled laugh against Sherlock’s hip. “All right,” he says, hiccupping a little, but he still doesn’t let go. After a moment, Sherlock starts playing again. It must be awkward with someone in his lap like this, but he never misses a note. This melody, too, is familiar. It’s the one Sherlock plays when he means ‘sorry’.

*

That night, John gets in Sherlock’s bed warily, wondering if he’s welcome there at all. He fights back sleep, but loses, and is fast asleep long before Sherlock finally joins him. By morning, they’re entwined as they always are. Sherlock’s mouth is on his neck. He sucks a mark there, a mirror of the mark John left on him. John tries his best to keep still, but when Sherlock’s mouth pulls one last time on his skin, hard, John’s hips jerk forward, his covered but aching cock pressing against Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock sucks in a breath, and if there are words behind it, John is too mortified to hear them. A small kiss, right at the corner of his mouth, then a second one, not so small anymore, tells him it’s okay. They’re okay.

*

The second weekend of their vacation, Sherlock asks his brother if they can spend a few days in London with him. John is as surprised as Mycroft, both because Sherlock didn’t mention this to him, and because he’s never been interested in spending time with Mycroft before.

“I thought you hated London,” Mycroft says, frowning over his cup of tea.

Sherlock huffs and rolls his eyes.

_Of course I don’t hate London. Where did you get that ridiculous idea?_

Mycroft’s answer is as dry as a desert. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe from you refusing to stay there with me.”

“Barking dog climbs the walls.”

_It’s not London I objected to. It’s the sitters you inflicted on me._

Snorting lightly, Mycroft looks at John. “One summer, we ran through seven sitters. He slipped away five times and wandered through London on his own.”

John has really no trouble imagining that. He can’t help but grin. “Good thing he doesn’t need a sitter anymore then, isn’t it?”

“Or rather, good thing that he’s so fond of the current one. Fine. You two can spend a few days, I suppose. But I warn you, I won’t be home all that often.”

That last part does not really pose problem.

They get to London late that night. Mycroft gives them a quick tour of his flat – if ‘flat’ is even the right word for it. It’s not as grand as the manor, of course, but it has the same heavy feeling of a posh past and respectable tenants. The office-slash-library is the biggest room, almost as large as the one in the manor. It’s also the room that looks the most lived in. Everything else seems a little cold, including the small guest bedroom where John and Sherlock are to sleep.

Good thing Sherlock doesn’t intend to spend much time in there. 

*

They arrive at Scotland Yard way too early in John’s opinion, but he says nothing and simply enjoys Sherlock’s excitement. Not that he _seems_ excited. In all appearances, he’s aloof and disinterested as they wait at the front desk. But John can’t fail to notice that little gleam in his eyes as he takes in everything. 

Lestrade shows up after only moments, and it’s clear the two teens standing there are the last people he expected to see. He hides his surprise well enough, and guides them to his office, closing the door carefully and shutting the blinds.

“You can’t just come here unannounced,” he says right away. “I could lose my job if someone knew I show you confidential documents.”

It would be a lot more convincing if he didn’t place a handful of folders in front of Sherlock.

They spend hours locked in Lestrade’s office. It could have been boring, but Sherlock is in a patient mood, so instead of simply spelling out answers, he walks John through his thinking process, which is always fascinating. A couple of times, knocks of the door interrupt them, and they get some odd looks. Lestrade talks to the intruders outside the room, and John wonders what explanation he gives about the two kids in his office.

It’s almost three in the afternoon when they stop. Sherlock would have happily continued until night, but John and Lestrade are starving. Lestrade treats them to lunch in a small thai restaurant nearby. It isn’t long before Sherlock asks when he can go to a real crime scene. Lestrade protests all through the meal, but even John can tell the idea intrigues him. His last objection is that they’re underage.

“I'm not,” John points out. He doesn’t really care about seeing a crime scene, but if that’s what Sherlock wants… “I’m almost nineteen, and Sherlock will be eighteen in January. You’ll have to find a better excuse.”

Lestrade is flustered. John turns a grin to Sherlock, and is startled by the small frown he finds directed at him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Sherlock doesn’t answer until later that evening, when they’re back in Mycroft’s flat. By then, John wishes he hadn’t answered at all. Sherlock meant to convince Lestrade to let him on a crime scene this summer, he says. Waiting until he’s an adult might just be waiting too long.

John would really prefer not knowing what Sherlock means exactly.

*

Their second day, they just walk through London, and John realizes Mycroft couldn’t have been more wrong. Sherlock doesn’t hate the city, no. He loves it. He seems to know every small street, every shortcut, every interesting thing to see.

He tells John about escaping from his sitters, that summer Mycroft mentioned, and how annoying it was that people would keep stopping him to ask if he was lost. When John first imagined it, he had this image of a kid just running free; now, he realizes it must have been very different, with Sherlock staying where he wouldn’t be noticed as much as he could. He wouldn’t have been able to talk to anyone. To John, it sounds more like a nightmare than anything someone would want to do five times over the course of a couple of months. He holds Sherlock’s hand a little tighter.

“Why don’t we move here after we’re done with school?” John suggests at some point. “We both get stipends from the Ministry of the Future. We could get a small flat. Nothing as posh as Mycroft’s, just… I don’t know. It wouldn’t have to be very big. We could drop by Scotland Yard once a week or something. Become consultants, or something legit, so Lestrade wouldn’t get in trouble. How does that sound?”

It must sound good, because instead of an answer, Sherlock offers him a kiss.

*

They’re out again the next day. This time, instead of wandering, Sherlock leads the way to a specific bench that looks like a hundred others to John. They sit there, and Sherlock’s eyes take a faraway look that John doesn’t like much.

“Wilted flowers,” Sherlock mutters after a little while, and John understands where they are. This is where the bomb was. This is the place Sherlock saw ravaged by an explosion. And after all this time, even after the bombing was prevented, Sherlock is still trying to understand how he was wrong. John wishes he could help, but he’s no Prophet; he only interprets, he doesn’t actually see those visions of the future.

“The important thing is that no one died,” he offers quietly.

Sherlock gives him a pained look that makes it clear John doesn’t understand a thing. It’s a hot summer day, and still John finds himself shivering.

*

When they go back to the manor, Sherlock’s website has received its first comments. He’s excited at first, they both are, until they realize that all comments, each on a different article, have the same title, and all contain only one link.

The title is, “This is what real Prophets do.”

The links all point to newspaper articles about catastrophes or accidents that were prevented or scaled down thanks to Messages from Prophets.

Each comment comes from a different IP number, and they all trace back to various locations, none of them in Great Britain. Each article is from a different newspaper and references a different Prophet. None of them is about something Sherlock predicted. None is about Moriarty, either. And still, when Sherlock says through clenched teeth, “Deadly spider,” John can only agree with him.

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s gotta be him. But why?”

That always seems to be the question, when it comes to Jim Moriarty. And John doesn’t have the beginning of an answer.

What troubles him the most, though, is that he’s not convinced Sherlock is as clueless as he claims to be about the other Prophet’s motives.

*

Early in August, John approaches Mycroft and, hemming and hawing, asks whether his family is going to show up again on his birthday.

“I have not reached out to them yet,” Mycroft says absently without raising his eyes from his paper.

“Could you… not invite them?”

Now Mycroft looks up, one eyebrow arched. “If that’s what you prefer.”

“It is.” He pauses for a second, then adds, “Actually… Could Sherlock and I come up to London just for the day?”

“I suppose.”

“And could you not tell Sherlock?”

Mycroft chuckles lightly. “Whose birthday is it again?”

The way John sees it, they never celebrated Sherlock’s birthday properly, so why not do both at once?

Sherlock figures out that something’s up, but he’s still surprised when they arrive at Scotland Yard. John emailed Lestrade a few days ago, and asked him if he has any unsolved problems left. He does. Watching the glee in Sherlock’s eyes is the best gift ever.

Before they go back to the manor, Sherlock has Mycroft’s driver stop in front of a souvenir store. He insists on going in alone, and comes back with a small, wrapped present, whose shape is rather familiar.

It’s another snow globe, with glitter swirling around Big Ben. 

“Candles,” Sherlock says.

_I don’t know when we’ll be back, but until then you can carry Big Ben in your pocket._

John laughs from sheer giddiness.

*

It’s much too soon that they have to go back to school. Neither of them has mentioned Moriarty since those comments on the website, but John has watched Sherlock grow more irritable and tense as the days pass, and he knows who’s to blame. In a school that small, they won’t be able to avoid him, that much is clear.

Their last night at the manor, as they lie in bed, neither of them asleep yet, Sherlock thanks John for what was the best summer of his life.

John wishes it didn’t sound like it’ll be his last.


	10. Acceleration

It doesn’t take long.

Their first day back, their first meal in the cafeteria, Moriarty comes to their table. Kitty is with him, of course, but also, surprisingly enough, Molly. She seems a little taken aback at finding herself at Sherlock’s and John’s table, but she smiles and offers a quiet, “Hi Sherlock, hi John.”

John replies with a nod and a quick smile; if Sherlock hears her, he doesn’t show it. The moment Moriarty sits next to him, Sherlock sets his fork down. He pushes the tray away, rests his elbows on the table, his fingers steepled in front of his face.

John raises an eyebrow at him, tilting his head toward the exit, silently asking if he wants to leave. Sherlock gives the tiniest shake of head. At the same moment, Moriarty clucks his tongue.

_Manners, Sherlock. Didn’t your mommy ever teach you not to put your elbows on the table?_

Sherlock might as well be carved marble for his complete and utter lack of reaction. John glares at Moriarty, sharp words on his tongue, but that same tiny shake of head from Sherlock stops him. He turns back to his plate, eating quickly. If he reads Sherlock correctly, they’re going to stay here and take abuse until John is done with his food. He intends to finish _fast_.

“Oh, apologies,” Moriarty drawls, cutting a slice from the apple on his tray with a knife.

_That’s right, I forgot. She didn’t live long enough to. Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to be inconsiderate._

The whole thing rings like a lie so loudly that John winces. Next to him, Kitty snorts. Molly looks downright confused.

“So what have you two been up to this summer?” Kitty asks, her voice dripping with false sweetness, and to an outsider it could almost sound like she’s interpreting what Moriarty just said. “Any interesting Messages for Stephen?” She gives a little giggle. “I mean, the Minister.”

Sherlock isn’t going to answer, John would bet his right hand on that. He’s not sure why he bothers doing so himself.

“We kept busy,” he says coolly. “How about you, Molly? Did anything interesting?”

She shrugs a little. “Not much. Just a lot of studying.” Her face brightens a bit as she adds, “I got to see Jim a little when he wasn’t too busy traveling between London and Dublin for Prophet things.”

Moriarty’s face breaks into a grin. “Isn’t she lovely?” he croons, making her blush.

She might not blush for the same reason if she knew what the rest of them hear. 

_Aren’t normal people adorable? I always wanted a pet and she makes a great one. She just **loves** me. Trails behind me like an overexcited puppy. But you know all about that, Sherlock, don’t you? You’ve got John._

That’s apparently Sherlock’s breaking point.

When he stands, his fists are closed, his knuckles white, his whole body trembling, and while John entirely sympathizes with the desire to punch the bastard in the face, this might not be the best time and place for it.

“Ready to go, Sherlock?” John asks, standing as abruptly as Sherlock did.

He wrangles both trays on top of each other so he can carry those in one hand and curl the other around Sherlock’s arm and drag him away.

“Breathe,” John whispers as they get to the exit. “You’re turning purple, Sherlock. It’s a good color on your clothes, not so much on your face.”

As jokes go, this is a lame one, but it does its job, and Sherlock lets out a huff that almost – just almost – sounds like amusement. It also sounds like a litany of curses. John had no idea Sherlock even knew such filthy words.

“Are you okay?” he asks, wary.

Sherlock makes an irritated gesture, although he doesn’t free his arm from John’s grip.

“Moriarty,” he snaps, then grits his teeth.

_I made a mistake. I ignored him thinking he’d go away like the rest of those idiots, but he’s not like them. He’s going to keep at it and it’ll get worse until he gets what he wants. And you – you’re already getting caught in the crossfire. I’m sorry, John._

John only hears one thing in all of that. Something he suspected until today, but now he’s sure.

“You know what he wants,” he says, and it’s not a question. “Are you going to tell me or am I too ordinary to know?”

Sherlock stops abruptly, his brow furrowed. “Green sparrows.”

_You’re anything but ordinary._

“Am I? Is that why you’re hiding things from me?”

Sherlock’s frustration all but radiates from him. “They don’t fly!”

_I’m not hiding anything! He wants the same thing every other idiot in this school wants! He wants to be **special**. He wants to be one of a kind. He wants power, and fame, and for the world to revolve around him. Like any of it even **matters**! Can’t you see how stupid it all is? Prophets are treated like they’re extraordinary, but it’s not like they choose any of it. It’s not like we want to know all that stuff. It’s just dumped on us, and there’s nothing we can do about it! Nothing! We get used because we’re convenient, and no one ever wonders what it feels like to see and feel horrible things happening over and over again, no one ever asks if we want to do something else, anything else. If I want to **be** something other than a freak who can’t even say three words to the people I care about!_

John struggles to take all that in. He’s all too aware of how Sherlock went from ‘Prophets’ to ‘we’ to ‘I’, although he’s not sure Sherlock himself noticed. He just stands there, breathing fast, looking at John, waiting… waiting for what?

Lunch hour is over, and the hallway starts to fill with chattering students. Sherlock’s head snaps away and he starts to follow the flow of bodies. John catches up with him and draws him to the side.

“I never asked because I know,” he says softly. “I know that’s not what you want, and I know it hurts you, and I also know the only thing I can do is be here for you. All I want is for you to let me.”

It’s sort of awkward to hug when their peers are still passing by, whistling and catcalls less than pleasant behind them. Right now, John really couldn’t care less; not when Sherlock is clinging so hard to him.

*

One week in, two days after they give their first Message of the school year to the Headmaster, they’re called back to his office. John has a feeling he knows what it’s about, and unfortunately he’s right. Like at the end of the previous school year, Sherlock’s prediction clashes with Moriarty’s. He’s asked to take a closer look. He does.

A hundred and forty-seven casualties, he’d first predicted. John presses a hand to his back and strokes lightly. He’s never seen Sherlock as pale as when he amends the Message. A hundred and eighty-four, one days later than he originally said. 

On their way out, Moriarty makes a noise that could have sounded like concern. To John’s ears, it sounds much different.

_You should learn not to care, Sherlock. You’re going to make yourself sick, hurting over all these people. Dying is what people do. And anyway, most of them will survive, now, won’t they? Thanks to us._

“Silk is fragile,” Sherlock mutters.

_He’s doing this, John. I don’t know how but he’s doing it._

All day long, that’s all he says. Even when they go to bed that night, John can practically hear Sherlock’s mind churning, turning, looking at this puzzle from every angle. But how could Moriarty be responsible for a ferry sinking in the middle of the Channel? 

*

One month to the day after they were summoned to the Headmaster’s office, it happens again. It’s the day after Sherlock gave a Message about a massive accident on a highway involving four semi-trucks and twenty-two cars – thirty-two deaths. Moriarty and Kitty are there yet again. The Headmaster asks Sherlock to check his details, particularly on which side of the highway the accident will happen, and by which exit.

Sherlock’s voice is entirely expressionless when he amends his first prediction. Going North rather than South. Exit 21 rather than 18. Three trucks, twenty nine cars, forty deaths. The cause, he says, remains the same: a hunter, too close to the highway, and a shot flying wide.

Moriarty tutts and disagrees. No hunter, just a blown tire. A random accident with no one to blame. The Headmaster nods at Moriarty and Kitty, and dismisses them all.

“Think, Sherlock,” Moriarty says when they’re in the hallway.

_Have you thought about what I said? You know I’m right._

Sherlock stares straight ahead of him and walks a little faster. When they’re alone, John asks him what Moriarty meant. He’s not surprised when Sherlock doesn’t reply. Disappointed, but not surprised. It’s like Sherlock is drifting away from him, and never mind how closely John holds on to him at night.

*

The next morning, Sherlock tells John about his decision: he’s not going to give Messages anymore. He’s not going to look at all. He just doesn’t see the point.

When he says it, it’s easy to guess from his expression that he expects John to argue with him. But John doesn’t. He simply says, “All right. Good.” And he means it.

He’s fine with any decision that means Sherlock doesn’t have to experience more deaths.

When Mycroft visits a few days later, John takes him aside before he leaves. Mycroft frowns a lot, shakes his head, raises objections – but in the end, he doesn’t say no, just, “Let me think about it.”

*

Two weeks with no Message. John isn’t surprised when they’re summoned to the Headmaster’s office again, but he is however taken aback when, as before, Moriarty and Kitty are there.

“Jim gave a Message about a bomb set to explode in Cardiff but with all the visions he’s had to give to pick up your slack, Mr. Holmes, he couldn’t quite see where the bombing will happen. You will tell us.”

“Black hole,” Sherlock says at once; John dutifully interprets, keeping his voice blank.

“I have no idea. I can’t see that event. Try asking another Prophet.”

The Headmaster stands, both hands pressed to the desk in front of him.

“Mr. Holmes. I’ve given you and Mr. Watson a certain leeway in my school because of what you are. But if you refuse to use your talent, such as it is, then I will have no other choice but to take away those privileges you don’t deserve.”

If Sherlock is anything, it’s stubborn. He stands there, silent and immobile, staring at the Headmaster who is slowly turning red and will no doubt soon explode like that bomb they’re talking about.

Surprisingly enough, it’s Moriarty who puts an end to the stand-off.

“The poor boy can’t see.”

“Wait,” Kitty interprets. “I can see it better now. It’ll be right outside the townhall.”

The Headmaster is thrilled with Moriarty; not so much with Sherlock, who turns around and leaves before being dismissed. John hurries after him. He’s not the only one.

As always, Moriarty taunts him in the hallway. This time, though, Sherlock doesn’t just pretend he can’t hear him. This time, he whirls on the other Prophet, and before John can even blink Moriarty is pressed, face first, to the nearest wall, one of his arms twisted behind his back and held there by Sherlock. Kitty screams, but Moriarty is grinning.

“Spiders only scare sheep,” Sherlock practically growls.

_I know you’re doing this. I don’t know how yet, but I’ll figure it out. Whatever you think you’ll get out of this, think again._

The next second, the Headmaster steps out of his office.

“Holmes! What do you think you’re doing!”

Sherlock steps away from Moriarty. He turns his back on all of them and starts down the corridor. John wants to follow him, but something stops him in his tracks.

“It was entirely unprovoked,” Kitty says. “Sherlock Holmes is not only a bad Prophet, he’s also unbalanced.”

“Needles,” Moriarty supplies in a quiet, sad voice that doesn’t match whatsoever the glint in his eyes.

“And a drug addict,” Kitty interprets. “He’s just plain dangerous.”

“He’s none of that!” John objects. “And Moriarty has been pushing him from the first time they met. If that’s not provocation—”

“Enough, Watson,” the Headmaster snaps. “I’ve had enough. No more violin. If I hear so much as the echo of one note anywhere in my school or on the grounds, I’ll burn that damn instrument myself. His visit privileges are suspended. And you can tell him this from me. If he doesn’t find his manners again and fast, it’s not him I’ll expel. It’s you. You’re just making him worse than he was before you showed up here. Now get the hell out of my sight.”

A dozen, a hundred angry retorts present themselves to John’s minds. He swallows them back and forces his fists open. Shouting at the Headmaster or punching him in the face would only make things more difficult. Holding his head high, he turns on his heel and goes to look for Sherlock.

He’s not in the dorm. His violin case is under his bed, but John checks the auditorium anyway. Then the library. He checks every place he can think of inside the school, until there’s only one place Sherlock could be. He puts on his coat, and grabs Sherlock’s as well then goes out onto the grounds. Night is falling fast, and it’s cold. He walks faster.

When he first reaches the tree – their tree – he doesn’t see anyone, and his throat tightens as he wonders where Sherlock could possibly be. But his gaze drifts up, and there he is, sitting on the second branch up, his legs dangling on either side of the branch and his back to the trunk.

“Come down before you get a pneumonia,” John demands. “It’s freezing out here.”

Sherlock doesn’t so much as acknowledge he heard John.

“If you don’t come down, I’m coming up. And I’ll probably break my neck in the process.” Still no reaction. John strikes below the belt. “And it’ll be your fault I get hurt.”

That, at least, draws Sherlock’s eyes to him. It’s too dark by now, and John can’t really see them, or Sherlock’s face. Maybe it’s better that way.

“Come on,” he says, quieter now, almost pleading. “We got in enough trouble for one night. Sherlock, please. For me.”

Sherlock comes down. He lets John put the coat on him, and his scarf, and even lets himself be hugged. He doesn’t hug John back, or say anything. John figures he might as well get it all out of the way; still holding Sherlock tight, he says, “He said no more violin. No more visits. And he’ll expel me if you do anything he doesn’t like.”

A shudder rocks Sherlock’s body. His hands close on John’s coat.

“Rain of fire,” he says, his voice gravelly.

_I can’t lose you._

“And you’re not going to,” John agrees. “It’d take more than an expulsion to keep me away from you. But it won’t come to that. I’ve talked to Mycroft—”

“Too many legs.”

_It’s all Moriarty’s fault. He discredited my Messages and that’s the only thing the Headmaster values. Unless we figure out how he does it, there’s nothing Mycroft can do._

John isn’t so sure about that, but there’s something else he hears in Sherlock’s voice, something that surprises him – something that suddenly explains why Sherlock has been so upset.

The Headmaster isn’t the only one who values Sherlock’s Messages. Sherlock does too, doesn’t he? 

Sherlock, who didn’t even want to give Messages at all. Sherlock, who said being a Prophet is a terrible, useless fate. Sherlock, who claimed to believe nothing he says ever helps anyone.

Pulling back from the hug, John looks at him, tries to understand, but finally has to ask.

“I thought you didn’t care about being a Prophet.” He says it as delicately as he can, but can’t help but wince anyway. “So what does it matter what anyone thinks of your predictions?”

For the longest time, Sherlock only stares at John, and John is sure he’s missing something here, or maybe misinterpreted something Sherlock said. But then, Sherlock touches John’s mouth with a careful fingertip.

“The wind blows harder, but sand is smoother.”

_I don’t care what they all think. I just don’t want him to get away with what he’s doing._

It’s not a lie, exactly, but it doesn’t sound like the whole truth either. John tells himself he’ll ask another time, when Sherlock isn’t so upset. He knows, though. He can ask a hundred, a thousand times, there are things Sherlock just won’t tell him.

And it hurts.

*

Apparently, Mycroft does not appreciate being told he can’t visit his brother anymore. He shows up the next day at dinnertime and calmly asks Sherlock and John to go pack their things. John has been hoping for that since he talked to him a little over two weeks ago and asked what the point of them staying in school was. 

“He’s miserable here,” John also said to Mycroft that day. “I’m not saying that’s what will put a needle back in his arm, but it’s certainly not helping.”

It seems Mycroft is done thinking about it.

John is an adult and can leave the school whenever he wants, but Sherlock needed his guardian’s permission.

Now, he has it. 

Some students have assembled in the hallway to watch them leave. Moriarty is there, of course, his best smirk firmly in place. When Sherlock stops abruptly and starts toward him, John is alarmed and hurries to his side to stop him from doing anything stupid – or maybe to help him.

But it’s not Moriarty Sherlock addresses in a quiet voice. It’s the girl at his side; Molly.

“Knights and kings aren’t always the best cards.”

She blinks at him, then looks at John questioningly.

“People have lied to you,” John says. “People very close to you. But Sherlock never lied. And he wasn’t wrong.”

Sherlock nods once, then takes John’s hand. They join Mycroft, who is waiting not all that patiently. They leave. It’s only when Sherlock realizes they’re on their way to London that he starts smiling, but even then, it’s little more than the pale shadow of his best smile.

“The walls weren’t smashed,” he says, later that night, when they’re trying to get warm in the cold bed.

“I know you weren’t afraid of him,” John says soothingly, and doesn’t add, ‘I was afraid enough for both of us.’

*

Things have seemed to go faster since their return to the Academy, but now days seem to fly, time accelerating constantly.

It only takes them a few days to find a flat in London. The landlady is as sweet as can be, and while she constantly reminds them she’s their landlady and nothing more, she often shows up with food or does a bit of cleaning when they’re out. The flat has two bedrooms, one of which they share, while the other becomes Sherlock’s ‘lab’. What he does in there, John isn’t too sure, and it’s fine by him not to know.

Mycroft checks on them every so often. He and Sherlock are back to their childish games of sniping at each other, which, as far as John is concerned, means things are back to normal.

Or almost.

Sherlock is calmer, these days, but he hasn’t forgotten Moriarty. Every newspaper article about him and his predictions ends up tacked over the fireplace, and Sherlock spends hours pacing in front of it, passing from hand to hand one of the snowglobes that have taken residence on the mantelpiece.

He’s determined to figure it all out. John merely wishes he’d forget all about the other Prophet. At times, the pacing and muttering gets too much and John coaxes Sherlock to go out. Sometimes, they just walk through town. Sometimes, they end up at Scotland Yard, and at least it gives Sherlock’s mind something else to obsess about. And sometimes, Sherlock refuses to budge, and John goes out on his own. That’s all right; some things, he’d rather do without Sherlock knowing about them.

*

Before they even know it, it’s Christmas. John knows better than to ask for a tree, but he carefully suggests holding a small party, and after some prodding and cajoling, Sherlock agrees. He even practices a few holidays’ songs on the violin – not that he needs much practice, but maybe John is a little biased.

They invite their landlady Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade – who brings Sherlock a file wrapped in a ribbon; it’s the oldest cold file at the Yard, he says, more than a hundred years old. Sherlock’s eyes grow as wide as his grin and John has to hide the file or Sherlock would work on it, right then and there. Mycroft was invited (John insisted) but he sent his regrets. The last guest to come in is Molly.

To say Sherlock is surprised to see her there is an understatement, and for a second he looks like he expects someone else to walk in after her. But no, she’s alone. John explains she contacted him because she had something to tell Sherlock. And she does just that, stammering a little at times, struggling to keep looking Sherlock in the eyes. She says she asked her parents, point blank, what they were foretold about her future. They admitted they lied to her. She believes Sherlock, she adds. She never mentions Moriarty.

For all answer, Sherlock kisses her cheek. John isn’t sure who’s more startled by the gesture, himself or Molly.

John’s present to Sherlock is a snowglobe supposed to represent Scotland Yard, although it might be hard to tell without the caption on the base. Sherlock’s present to John is a new violin concerto. He plays it late into the night for him. There’s a homemade CD with the sheet music, and while Sherlock doesn’t explain, John can guess.

The CD is for when Sherlock’s not around to play the concerto anymore.

*

Three days later, Sherlock receives a slim packet that must be a late Christmas present, but John forgets to ask what it is when he realizes they each received a letter from the Ministry of the Future. Sherlock is informed that he’s not classified as a Prophet anymore, and will be prosecuted if he ever claims to be as much or tries to pass his predictions as true Messages. John’s status as an interpreter is revoked, his stipend suspended indefinitely.

They’ll miss the money, but John takes the news in stride. Sherlock, not so much. He rants about Moriarty – it’s his fault, of course, or at least Sherlock is convinced of it. When John asks him if that’s something he knows from a vision, Sherlock turns absolutely silent. He curls himself on the sofa, his back to John, and refuses to say another word.

“It’s not even like you _want_ to be a Prophet,” John tries to reason with him. “Now at least no one will ask you for Messages anymore. You haven’t even read the future in months! So why are you so upset?”

In the end, John gives up. Sherlock spends the night on the sofa. He’s a pain for the next few days. New Year’s Eve is downright gloomy. John gives him space and tries not to look like he’s observing every move Sherlock makes – even though he is. Sherlock has been spiraling downward, there’s no denying it, and John clinging to him helps nothing.

*

Sherlock’s birthday seems to come up much too fast. He hides in his lab for most of the day, having commandeered John’s laptop, no doubt to research Moriarty some more, even if it’s an absolute pain for him to use a computer. John decides he’s had enough. He takes down the articles above the fireplace, throws them into the fire, and replaces them by clippings he’s been printing outside the flat so Sherlock wouldn’t know. He pins them up in two large groups, then goes up to get Sherlock. The way he slams the top of the computer down is somewhat suspicious, but John doesn’t care right now. He takes Sherlock’s hand and drags him to the fireplace.

“Forget Moriarty,” he says, holding Sherlock’s shoulders from behind to make sure he doesn’t turn away from the articles. “Forget what he did or what he wants. What’s important is you, Sherlock. What you did, what you want to do. These are the things you predicted and the people you saved, and next to it are the cases you helped Lestrade crack. And I know you don’t care for recognition, but just look at it all, Sherlock. This is what you’re doing. You’re helping people. And it doesn’t matter if it’s with Messages or deductions, does it?”

Sherlock gives him a blank look and goes back up to his lab. John stops pretending he’s not worried. He follows, and spends the rest of the day in there. Just being close. If there’s anything else he can do, he doesn’t know what it is.

*

The day that marks two years since John first met Sherlock, John is awakened much too early by Sherlock’s violin. His first reaction is to roll over and cover his head with a pillow… and then, he hears what Sherlock is playing.

His ‘I’m sorry’ song.

Still half asleep, John stumbles out of bed, following the notes the way he used to, that first summer. He stands in the middle of the living room, watching Sherlock play. And this time, Sherlock watches him back. There's more in his eyes than he could ever say.

He draws out the last note until it’s nothing but a quivering murmur. The second it stops, John steps forward. When he reaches him, Sherlock has already set the violin and bow down. He turns to John, throws both arms around him, kisses him hard enough to stun him.

John blinks, then closes his eyes, clinging to Sherlock as he deepens the kiss. It’s been almost a month since they kissed, a month since they slept in the same bed, a month since Sherlock started shrugging out of John’s hands whenever they reach for him. It felt like forever.

“Do you know you’re the biggest prat in the world?” John mumbles, peppering Sherlock’s face and neck with kisses. “But I don’t care. I love you anyway.”

“Obvious,” Sherlock mumbles.

 _I know_. John isn’t sure if he means he knows he’s a prat or he knows John loves him – right now, it doesn’t matter. Not when Sherlock’s hands are on his hips, stirring him backward until they’re back in the bedroom. Not when those same hands, now slightly hesitant, slide under John’s pants and pull them down, then grab the hem of his t-shirt and tug it over his head. Not when John is suddenly lying naked on their bed with Sherlock kneeling between his parted legs, and not completely certain what’s happening. His cock, straining thick and flushed in front of him, has a small idea of what’s going on, but it’s hardly the smartest part of him.

“Sherlock?” he says, already panting a little when they’ve done little more than kiss. “What…”

“Put the broken hyacinths in a glass?”

_I’m sorry I’m such a pain. I never meant to hurt you. Let me make it up to you?”_

John sits up a little, leaning back on one elbow and caressing Sherlock’s cheek with his other hand. “You don’t have anything to make up for.” His voice breaks a little. “You don’t have to do anything—” 

But then, it’s difficult to finish that thought when Sherlock’s fingers, Sherlock’s long, agile fingers slide up John’s thigh and, ever so gently, curl around his cock for a little squeeze.

John gasps, and could weep when those too gentle fingers let go of him. 

“Fire?” Sherlock asks, alarmed. 

_Am I hurting you?_

John lets out a strangled laugh. “You did the very opposite of hurting me.” 

Grabbing Sherlock’s arms, John draws him down to the bed next to him and proceeds to kiss him again. He’s known he loved Sherlock for some time, now; he hadn’t realized he could ever love him even more. He tries to put that in his kiss, slow but deep – possessive. Tries to say he doesn’t care if Sherlock’s moody or downright impossible at times. Doesn’t care if he doesn’t talk for days on end, or sulks like a child. He doesn’t care about anything just as long as Sherlock loves him back. And he does. John knows that. He’s never been told, but that’s all right. He knows. 

Sherlock’s hand slide between them and finds John’s cock again. When he hums against John’s lips, it’s a request. 

_Show me how?_

So John closes his hand over Sherlock’s and guides it, nice and slow at first, to the same rhythm as their kisses, and then a little faster, and soon John stops guiding, he just keeps his hand on top of Sherlock’s so he won’t be tempted to touch where he wasn’t invited. His other hand is curled tight in Sherlock’s hair. 

It can’t last long, not after all these months of waiting without really hoping. When John comes, it’s with Sherlock’s name on his lips, a breathless prayer. Sherlock watches him the entire time, eyes wide, like he wants to remember this for the rest of his life. 

“Do you… do you want me to…” John tries when his heart starts slowing down again. 

“Hush,” Sherlock whispers. 

_I don’t want anything. Just for you to hold me. Will you do that? Please?_

John is more than happy to oblige. He wipes himself with his t-shirt, then all but curls around Sherlock, drawing the covers on top of them like a cocoon. Sherlock is trembling a little, but then, so is John; they hold on to each other a little tighter.

* 

It’s closer to lunchtime than breakfast when they get out of bed, but Sherlock insists he wants tea and toast. Except, as usual, he used what was left of the milk to grow bacteria – and John suspects the bread was sacrificed to the same cause. With a sigh, he kisses Sherlock, gets dressed, and promises he won’t be long. Good thing there’s a store just a couple of streets over. 

When he comes back, he calls Sherlock’s name but gets no answer. He must be back in his lab, John thinks, shaking his head. He sets the kettle to boil, puts the bread in the toaster, and as he waits for everything to be ready it occurs to him that his laptop is on the table, and that’s not where he left it. He runs a finger over the touchpad and the black screen comes to life. A folder is open, labeled ‘CD-Rom’. Frowning, John opens one of the dozen or so pictures. His image comes up; he’s walking inside Bart’s. The picture is titled ‘looking for a new job?’ 

The next picture is also of John, this time sitting in a café with Molly. This one is titled, ‘looking for a new love?’ 

“What the hell…” John mutters. For a moment, the only explanation he can fathom is that Sherlock has been following him when he goes out. But no, that can’t be. Sherlock couldn’t have typed those asinine captions. The one for the picture of John climbing into Mycroft’s car, ‘warning big brother that he’s going to leave?’ makes him clench his teeth so hard they hurt. 

He runs through all the pictures. They’re all pictures of him. The last file is a video. At the moment the image of Moriarty comes up on the screen, John slams the top of the laptop down and shouts. 

“Sherlock!” 

He runs up to the lab, but finds it empty. Coming back down, he notices the bedroom door is closed. He pushes it open, his heart beating much too fast. For the past few months, everything has been happening to fast, time has been flowing through John’s hands and he was unable to slow it down.

But at the moment he sees Sherlock lying down on the floor, time suddenly stands still, then shatters like a pane of glass, shards flying everywhere, tearing John’s entire world apart, including his mind and heart. 

There’s only one drop of blood, though, right at the crook of Sherlock’s elbow. 


	11. Two Years As Your Interpreter

Consciousness is a harsh mistress; it floods Sherlock’s mind with sensations even before his brain fully engages again.

The smell of antiseptic is all around him, pervasive, layers upon faded layers, so thick he can practically taste it. The air is filled with beeps and buzzing and hushed voices. He’s lying down between starched sheets and they feel like sandpaper on his skin.

Hospital, his mind belatedly supplies as he opens his eyes onto a dark, slightly fuzzy room.

God but he hates hospitals.

Without thinking, he tries to sit up - and gasps in pain when fire lances from his side and throughout his body.

“That’d be your cracked ribs,” Mycroft says quietly, stepping closer to the bed. “I’d advise against moving, but we both know how much you care about my advice.”

Breathing hard through clenched teeth, Sherlock blinks a few times until Mycroft’s features sharpen along with the rest of the room. In the faint light drifting in from the hallway, his skin looks ashen, the underside of his eyes, purple. He looks older than Sherlock’s ever seen him.

He picks up a glass of water on a nearby tray and approaches it to Sherlock’s lips.

“Just your head,” he cautions, sliding a hand to the back of Sherlock’s head to help him. Sherlock rolls his eyes at him as he takes a sip, then two, then somehow empties the whole glass.

“How do you feel?” Mycroft asks, setting the glass aside again.

_Strangely enough, alive. Unless this is some fantasy concocted by my dying brain, in which case I feel rather disappointed._

Mycroft’s lips tighten on a slim smile. “Yes, it’d certainly be a letdown to spend your last moments with me, even if it was only a fantasy born of misfiring neurons. Fortunately, this is not a fantasy, and you are very much alive, if a little worse for wear. Apparently John’s efforts at CPR were slightly… over-enthusiastic.”

Sherlock closes his eyes tightly.

John.

John was there. He wasn’t supposed to be. He wasn’t supposed to see Sherlock die. That was the only gift Sherlock could offer him: spare him that pain, even if it meant being all alone and so damn scared. Spare him, and in exchange let Sherlock spare himself from seeing the disappointment in John’s eyes when he finally admitted Sherlock was nothing more than a fake. And he is a fake, isn’t he? He couldn’t even predict his own death correctly. Moriarty was right all along.

A thought intrudes on Sherlock’s internal monologue. His eyes snap open and he frowns.

_CPR? That wouldn’t have been enough…_

He trails off when Mycroft’s expression darkens.

“No,” he says in a softly dangerous voice. “It wasn’t. But combined with a shot of Naloxone, it stopped you from slipping away until the ambulance arrived. As I understand it, they had to pry him off you and even then he gave one of the technicians a black eye. It’s a close thing they didn’t end up sedating him. It might have been better if they had.”

Sherlock’s brain feels a little slow, still cleaning the cobwebs clinging to his thoughts. Naloxone. He heard of it, yes. Used in case of heroin overdose. He starts asking where John got his hands on it, but somehow what he says is, _Where is he?_

He hates how small his voice sounds, and hates even more that he has to ask Mycroft of all people, but he needs to know, he needs to see John, he needs to tell him…

What on earth is he going to tell him?

Rather than answering, Mycroft takes a step to the side. Tucked behind him in the darkest corner of the room is an armchair. John is curled up there under a too small hospital blanket, asleep.

“He crashed just a moment ago,” Mycroft says, still as quietly. “He wouldn’t go home when visiting hours ended, of course. He can be almost as stubborn as you are. Should I bother asking why?”

The change of topic is not entirely unexpected. Mycroft always asks why, and Sherlock always tells him to sod off. But this time is different. This time Sherlock shouldn’t be here at all.

_Because I’m a fraud, don’t you know? My predictions aren’t worth a damn thing. I’m just a deluded, deranged maniac with a powerful brother who found someone naive enough to be his interpreter. And John… he was starting to believe it, too. He was going to leave me._

“I bloody well wasn’t!”

Mycroft glances back, then lets John get closer.

“When did I ever say I thought you were a fraud?” John looms over the bed, his face a mask of fury. “When, Sherlock? When did you ever hear me doubt you? When did I—”

His voice breaks. His eyes fill with tears. Seeing that hurts as much as the physical pain of John’s arms wrapping around Sherlock and jostling his ribs. Sherlock grits his teeth, embraces the pain, and closes his arms around John to hold him even tighter.

“John,” Mycroft says. “His ribs.”

Immediately, John tries to pull back. Sherlock refuses to let him.

“Let go, you idiot,” John says, his voice still thick with tears. “How someone so smart can be so bloody stupid, I’ll never understand.”

_Climb on next to me and I’ll let go._

John protests, but not all that much. The bed is narrow, but that never stopped them before. He lies on his side, his body pressed along Sherlock’s, his head on the same pillow. And when he rests one hand on Sherlock’s chest, Sherlock lays his own on top of it.

Mycroft’s sigh holds years of disapproval. Sherlock throws him a tired look.

_Can’t you go annoy someone else?_

“Who?” Mycroft asks. “I don’t believe I have another brother.”

Which is as close to expressing sentiment Mycroft ever gets, and that’s enough.

_If you did, he’d probably give you less grief than I do._

Which is the closest thing to an apology Sherlock can offer, and that, too, will have to be enough.

“I have a few phone calls to make,” Mycroft says. “I’ll be back later.”

It’s a lie. Sherlock knows it’s a lie. Mycroft knows Sherlock knows it’s a lie. And neither of them cares one bit.

The door shuts behind Mycroft with a whisper, and Sherlock is suddenly very aware that John is watching him. He closes his eyes, as though it might help him hide.

“I saw that CD,” John says. “And the pictures. I can explain. Would you like me to or are you happy to wallow in ridiculous interpretations?”

What Sherlock wants, right now, is to sleep, and forget everything for a little while. Forget he’s still alive. Forget he hurt John despite his best efforts not to. He tried to give John nice memories. Tried to plan things so he’d be alone. Emptied the carton of milk in the sink, knowing exactly how long John would need to go to the store and come back. His mistake was to watch the pictures again, not because he needed the push but because he wanted to see John’s face one last time. If he hadn’t, if he’d kept to his schedule…

He shakes his head; he doesn’t want to talk now, doesn’t want to listen, doesn’t want anything at all. John ignores him.

“Yes, I was sneaking behind your back. No, I wasn’t looking for another career when I went to Bart’s. I was learning to do CPR and how to use intravenous needles. And even then I had to stick you three times and cracked a couple of your ribs, so clearly I should stick to being your interpreter. It’s less complicated.”

John is trying to make a joke, Sherlock realizes that, but the last thing he feels like doing is laugh.

“As for meeting Molly,” John continues, “that was before Christmas. When she told me she’d broken up with Moriarty and got her parents to admit they lied to her. She also mentioned something I thought was strange. She said Moriarty had a cell phone at school that he kept concealed from everyone, even Kitty. And she heard him talk to someone he called Sebastian. She figured he had to be an interpreter, too. That’s what I told Mycroft when I met him. It gave him a new piece of information to investigate. They found out this Sebastian was Moriarty’s interpreter before Kitty. He has a rather odd set of skills, including being able to build bombs, use firearms, that kind of things. Very friendly from what I gather.”

At the word firearms, it all clicks together. How could Sherlock be so blind? So damn stupid? He had almost all the clues. He was only missing one: another interpreter. It shouldn’t have been hard to put it together. Moriarty got under his skin but that wasn’t a reason for Sherlock to forget how to _think_!

He opens his eyes wide and looks at John.

 _That’s how he was doing it!_ he says, tripping over the words in his haste to get them out. _He’d plan something with that Sebastian, wait for me to predict it, then change the details just enough to make me look incompetent and make himself into a hero! Moriarty’s behind all of it! All those bombs, those accidents… He was just building himself up at the same time he was tearing me down. I have to tell Mycroft._

He tries to get up, but John’s hand on his chest presses down and keeps him in place.

“He knows,” John says quietly, soothingly. “He figured it out a few days ago. We didn’t tell you because we thought Moriarty was keeping a very close eye on you. That’s the only way to explain how he knew every time you predicted something to the Headmaster. Well, Mycroft thought the Headmaster was in on it at first, but no. When you're up to it, if you want to help, we've got an idea on how to get Moriarty and...”

His voice trails off when he realizes Sherlock is staring at him. And what else can Sherlock do but stare? For months, almost a year, now, his greatest fear has been that he’d lose John. Moriarty has repeatedly told him John would end up thinking he was a fraud and leave. Why would he stay as Sherlock’s interpreter if Sherlock only predicted nonsense? Others before John had left because they didn’t believe Sherlock was the real deal – his own parents, for one thing. And how could he not believe it himself? With so many of his predictions being off, it was too easy to believe that he was wrong about his own death; that John wouldn’t be there after all. And if he was going to end up alone, why prolong things any more?

And in fact, he _was_ wrong, wasn’t he?

 _I didn’t die,_ he whispers. _One more thing I was wrong about. Maybe Moriarty—_

John stops him with a hard kiss, their teeth clashing together, his fingers curling in Sherlock’s hair tight enough to hurt.

“You did die, you bloody idiot,” John mutters when he pulls away. The tears are back in his eyes. “I was there. I heard your last breath. You had no pulse. You died, Sherlock. Just like you said. So now that it’s out of the way, do you think maybe you can start living?”

_Living?_

The very idea sounds absurd, if not downright unreal. For more than half his life, Sherlock has known he wouldn’t live to see his nineteenth birthday. He never imagined what he’d do as an adult. These last few months in Baker Street felt like stolen time, like a ‘fuck you’ to fate: doing the things he thought he wouldn’t get to experience. And now… now that he’s being told he can have more of it all, more hours with his violin, more puzzles to solve for Scotland Yard, more of a little old lady fussing over him the way no one ever did, more of his brother being a nosy, insufferable prat, more quiet mornings with John, and long walks with John, and chases with John, and laughter with John, just more John, more life…

He still can’t believe it. Still can’t imagine it.

His disbelief must show on his face, because John gives him a small, sad smile, like he knows this is too difficult for Sherlock to fathom.

“Would you do me a favor?” he asks softly. “I’ll only ask you this once, I promise. Never again after today. But would you please take a look at my life? Not all of it. I don’t want to know everything. I just want to know one thing. I’d like to know about the day I’ll die. Can you do that for me, Sherlock? Do this for me, and I’ll never bring up again what you did today and how much it fucking _hurts_ that you tried to leave me like this. You asshole.”

Sherlock’s stomach twists painfully. It’s emotional blackmail, pure and simple. Sherlock finds he doesn’t really care. He owes that much to John. He owes him a lot more than that, in fact. For putting up with him for two years. For being his voice. For believing him when he had little reason to. For refusing to give up on him, also, maybe. And he owes him for believing John would leave.

So he nods, just once, and releases the tight control he holds on what some call a talent or gift, but really it’s a curse. It took him a long time to learn to shove it all away and only see when he wants to, and even now his control isn’t complete.

He can’t jump straight to the end of John’s life; he gets glimpses along the way, like words and phrases caught while flipping through the pages of a book.

He sees their flat on Baker Street changing with the accumulation of all the little things gathered along time. The mantelpiece is covered in snow globes, with the first two, the identical ones, right in the center.

He sees a pub, and pints of beers, and John keeps smiling at him, and Lestrade and Molly are laughing.

He sees John glare, anger all but radiating from him as he confronts Lena – except, she calls herself Irene, now.

He sees John running in some dark, misty woods; he’s coming toward Sherlock.

He sees a gun in John’s hand, and he knows that gun has just one purpose: keep Sherlock safe.

He sees a scar on John’s shoulder, like a pale flower; sees himself kissing it ever so gently.

He sees a little boy; he has Sherlock’s eyes, and John’s smile.

He sees so many things that they start to blur together – or maybe that’s his tears. He wipes his eyes, and finally he’s at the end of John’s long story. They’re in a small room much like this one. Another hospital. Except, John’s the one under the sheet, pale and tired, his hair almost completely white. He’s still smiling. Sherlock climbed in next to him. The nurses didn’t protest.

They talk. Quiet words. They hold hands. They both know it won’t be long, now. They’ve said all they had to say.

“Don’t join me too soon,” John admonishes yet again.

 _I won’t,_ Sherlock says, and John pretends he can’t hear the lie.

John’s eyes close. Sherlock kisses him one last time. And pulls out of the vision.

For a moment, he feels disoriented. He takes in a sharp breath, blinks a few times. John says, ever so softly, “You’ll be there, won’t you? When I die? You’ll be next to me and hold my hand so I’m not afraid.”

 _How did you know?_ Sherlock asks, a little dazed, a little cold, and so, so sad about something that won’t happen for decades and yet feels so achingly real. _Did you talk to another Prophet? Did they tell you—_

John stops him by pressing their mouths together again.

“No,” he says quietly when he pulls back. “No other Prophet. Just you, Sherlock. Nobody but you. You promised me two years as your interpreter. I never agreed that’d be enough. So here’s my offer. I’m promising you a lifetime as your partner. All you have to do is say yes.”

Something else Sherlock never imagined, but then, he doesn’t need to. He just saw what that lifetime looks like. He saw happy times, and less happy ones, but without the latter, the former wouldn’t be so bright. He also saw more love directed at him than he deserves – but he’ll certainly do his best to give back every last bit of it.

Sherlock closes his eyes and tries to focus. He’s never been good at doing this. Names are easier, because names carry more than one meaning anyway. Regular words… those are hard. Those take effort. But if he can do this, it’ll be worth it. And isn’t that true of his relationship with John, too? Isn’t that true of his damn life?

When he opens his eyes again, he finds John looking at him worriedly. Sherlock rests a slightly shaking hand on his cheek and offers him words he won’t need to interpret.

“I love you.”

 

_the end_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are. I hope the ride was worth it.  
> Thank you for the encouragements along the way. I'm always happy to hear what readers thought.  
> <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Two Years As Your Interpreter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4074973) by [consulting_smartass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/pseuds/consulting_smartass)




End file.
